


Non Sequitur

by blueflowers



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 26,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueflowers/pseuds/blueflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miniature hurt/comfort oneshots--all the good stuff with none of the plot. :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Abbie looked through the one-way observation window into Ichabod's poorly-lit concrete cell. He was leaning against the wall, staring at the door, clearly listening. His coat, boots and stockings were gone, and he looked disheveled and poorly rested. But at least he was _there_. Abbie breathed a sigh of relief. They'd been searching for him for two days, ever since the cult had kidnapped him. And since she knew they had a habit of brainwashing people, those two days had been torture for her.

"Here it is," Mike said, bringing over the key and unlocking the cell.

"Thanks. Let me go in to him," she said, and he nodded and walked away.

She pushed the door open. "Crane!"

His reaction wasn't what she had expected. "No," he said, backing away from her and shaking his head. "You're not here."

 

"Crane—"

"No, no." He backed into the corner and crouched down, refusing to look at her. "You're not really here."

"Crane!" She crouched in front of him, and he pulled back into himself, closing his eyes and huddling into the corner. His face was pale and pinched, and somehow his bare feet made him seem terribly vulnerable.

" _You're not real_ ," he whispered over and over. " _You're not real…_ "

She took his hand. "Ichabod."

He opened his eyes and stared at her hand, then up at her face. "You—you're real…"

Abbie gave him a painful smile. "Yes, I—"

Ichabod threw himself into her arms, almost knocking her over.

"Whoa!" she said, catching her balance, and then rubbing his back awkwardly. "It's okay—it's alright—"

After about a minute he sat back and cleared his throat. "My apologies, Lieutenant," he said, would-be calmly, while surreptitiously wiping his eyes.

"That's alright." She smiled gently. "I’m happy to see you, too." He gave a little huff of laughter, and she climbed to her feet. "Come on, let's get you out of this cell. It's freezing!" She took his hand again, but he didn't move. When she looked down, he was staring at the floor. "What is it?" she asked, crouching down again.

"I will just be going from one cell to another," he said, looking up and giving her a wavering smile.

"What do you mean?"

"I've… I've gone mad, Lieutenant." His voice wavered, and he swallowed hard. "I've been—seeing you, over and over—You, and Katrina, and General Washington, and the Horseman…" He gulped again and shut his eyes. "And they weren't real, but I couldn't tell that, and… I saw such terrible things…"

"Crane," she interrupted him. "You're not crazy."

He gave a humorless laugh. "Then what would you call it?"

"Hallucinations. Crane, you were _drugged_."

He frowned up at her. "Impossible. I haven't eaten anything since I've been here, and no one has injected me with anything…"

No food for two days! Abbie pushed aside her dismay. "It's the air, Crane. The hallucinogen was in the form of a gas, and they pumped it into the cell periodically." She pointed to a vent near the ceiling. "I've seen the mechanism already—I can show it to you, if you'd like."

Ichabod breathed a deep sigh and leaned his head back for a moment in relief. "No," he said; "let's—get out of here." She pulled him to his feet, and he staggered. "Mm. Sorry," he muttered.

Abbie wrapped her arm around his waist, and by dint of leaning on the wall, they made it out of the cell, down the corridor and out of the building. Ichabod threw his arm up to shade his eyes from the unaccustomed sunlight. "It's like crawling out of my grave all over again," he muttered.

The EMTs Captain Irving had called to the scene rushed over with a stretcher, but Ichabod waved it away. "I do not need to be carted about—I can walk," he said stiffly, disengaging from Abbie's arm and making his way slowly over to the ambulance on his own. Abbie couldn't help hovering a bit as the EMTS threw a blanket over his shoulders and checked his vitals. 

"Mr. Crane?" An officer held out his coat, stockings and boots, which they had recovered from the building.

"Ah. Thank you—Mike," Ichabod answered with a slight smile, recognizing the man who had, in his words, kept him prisoner in his hotel room.

"The Captain wants to see you," Mike added to Abbie as Ichabod pulled on his stockings.

When she returned he was sitting in the back of the ambulance, fully dressed and munching on a granola bar. "Lieutenant Mills," one of the EMTs said, "if you're ready, we're going to take Mr. Crane to the hospital now."

Ichabod started and looked up from his granola. "Um, is that… really necessary?" Abbie asked.

"The doctors will likely want to keep him overnight, just as a precaution," she answered.

Abbie looked at Ichabod—he had blanched slightly, and wasn't making eye contact. "Uh, could I talk to you for a second?" Abbie said to the medic, and stepped around the side of the ambulance. "Mr. Crane has had—rather a traumatic experience," she said in a low voice as the medic joined her. "I think it would be best for him—mentally and emotionally—to go _home_. Is there any way _I_ could keep him under observation instead of taking him to the hospital?"

She pursed her lips in disapproval. "He can refuse medical treatment, but it's always better to be safe than sorry."

"I don't want to play games with his mental health," Abbie said more strongly, and walked back over to Ichabod. "You can refuse medical treatment if you want," she told him quickly.

He looked relieved. "I'm not going to the hospital," he said as the EMT rejoined them.

She cast an accusatory glance at Abbie. "I really recommend you be checked out by a physician," she stressed. "The after-effects of the drug you have been given could be dangerous." She listed off a multitude of complications, including death, but Ichabod was adamant. "Very well," she huffed, and went to the front of the ambulance to get the release form.

Ichabod signed it without comment, and with a few final words to Captain Irving, Abbie led him back over to her car.

He buckled his seatbelt and leaned his head back with a sigh. When she reached for the gearshift, he caught her hand. "Thank you, Miss Mills," he said with a small smile.

She smiled back. "You're welcome. Let's go home."


	2. Chapter 2

"I MEAN, A _DRAGON? **REALLY??**_ "

"STOP TRYING TO EXPRESS YOUR ASTONISHMENT AND CONCENTRATE ON _RUNNING!_ " Ichabod bellowed.

It was the wrong day to wear her high-heeled boots, Abbie thought as they pounded through the old service tunnels. Ichabod, with his much longer legs, could have easily outdistanced her, but he was keeping close to her heels. How would they know when that potion worked? 

She found out a moment later. There was a BOOM, and Ichabod grabbed her arm, throwing her sideways into a partially-shielded stack of half-rotten crates and throwing himself in front of her.

Her face was pressed to his chest, but she could feel the searing heat of the explosion on her legs, and caught the awful smell of burning sulfur that came after. Well, she thought facetiously, at least maybe now their clothes would dry a little. Nothing like being soaked to the skin AND burnt up in one day.

Eventually everything stopped rumbling. All she could hear was Ichabod panting. She gave a little push and he fell backward, leaning against the crates, his chest heaving.

"Boy, that old book wasn't kidding—that dragon bomb recipe was… well, the bomb!" She laughed giddily at her own stupid joke, just relieved they had survived yet another apocalyptic attack. "Well, should we go back and make sure it's _really_ fried, or should we head back up and call the Captain?" There was no answer. "Crane?" She turned just in time to see him fall to his knees, his chest heaving. "Crane!"

"I think—the explosion caught up to me," he said faintly, clinging to the crates. As he turned, Abbie could see that the back of his coat was charred.

"Oh my God." She knelt down to get a better look. A patch about eight inches wide and six high had been burnt out of the back of his coat across his shoulder blades, straight through his shirt. The skin beneath, when she turned the flashlight on it, was a terrible mottled red. "Second degree—third—We need to get you out of here—call an ambulance," she said breathlessly. "Can you stand?"

He nodded, biting his lip, and she wrapped her arm around his waist and helped him to his feet. He stifled a groan and leaned on her heavily for a moment. That was when Abbie realized she didn't know where they were.

"Do you remember where the nearest exit is?" she asked nervously. They had looked a map before they had gone down, but she had quickly lost her way and had relied on Ichabod, who had used his prodigious memory to trace their path on the image of the map in his head.

It took him a little longer than usual to answer. "Left," he said at last, and they set off.

Ichabod's movements were slow and pained, and the farther they walked the more heavily he leaned on Abbie's shoulder. She had begun to worry that they had become lost and wouldn't be able to get out of the tunnels in time to help him when she finally spotted a ladder.

"At last," she breathed. "Crane, I'm going to go up first and open the hatch. Do you think you can climb up after me?"

He nodded and let go of her shoulder, and she stuck her flashlight between her teeth and scrambled up the ladder, pushing open the hatch at the top. They had come up into an empty warehouse. "Come on, Crane," she said, shining the light down on the rungs.

Ichabod managed to climb up to the top, moving slowly, but his face when he emerged at the top was absolutely white. Abbie helped haul him the rest of the way out, then pulled out her phone and checked their location on the GPS. She dialed 911, looking Ichabod over as it rang. He was slumped sideways on his hand, his eyes shut, breathing hard. There was blood on his lower lip—he had bitten it so hard to keep from crying out that he had drawn blood.

In a moment the operator answered, and Abbie gave her location and asked for an ambulance, at the same time hunting out a light switch. She found it at last and flicked it on, squinting in pain as the lights sprang up.

Now that she could see it clearly, Ichabod's back looked even worse. "Should I remove the clothes around the burn?" she asked the operator.

"Only if they're not stuck to it," the operator answered. "Pulling them off could damage the skin further. But yes, if you can, remove the clothing from the site of the burn so the heat is released."

"Crane." Abbie put a hand on his arm. "We're going to see about removing your coat, okay?"

Ichabod nodded, his eyes still shut, and Abbie turned on speakerphone and set it down. She checked the wound, and the coat at least didn't appear to be stuck to it. She took hold of the sides of the collar and slowly eased it backward. Ichabod flexed his shoulders to let her slide it down, taking a sharp breath as his burned skin shifted. "Sorry," Abbie murmured, at last getting the coat down far enough that she could pull it off his arms.

Luckily, the shirt didn't appear to be stuck to the wound, either. Abbie never thought she would have been thankful for that dousing they had had earlier—it was also probably the reason his clothes hadn't burned more extensively. She unbuttoned Ichabod's cuffs and began to pull his shirttails free—they were longer than she expected. He would normally have protested at this indignity, but he was too far gone to complain—which almost worried her more than anything else. When the shirttails were free she gathered up the back of the shirt and gently eased it over his head, thankful that the neckline was deep enough that Ichabod wouldn't have to move his arms much to get it off.

"Is he cold?" the operator asked. "Burns can cause shock—you may need to keep him warm."

Ichabod, slumped forward with his hands on his knees, didn't respond, so Abbie felt his hands, his cheek.

"He's a little clammy," she reported. "Here," she said softly, holding his coat up in front of him. "Slip your arms in." He did as she asked and let her ease him down to lie on his stomach. She covered his lower back with his shirt—hoping that a wet covering was better than no covering at all.

"Is that better?" she asked. There was no response. "Crane?" She touched his arm.

"Ms. Mills?" the operator spoke up. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, um… I think he passed out," Abbie said, trying to keep her voice steady. She took Ichabod's hand, trying to rub some warmth into it.

"The ambulance will be there soon," the operator said soothingly.

"Yeah."


	3. Chapter 3

Abbie stepped quietly over to the bedroom door and listened, barely breathing. She couldn't help it; she was worried. She hadn't heard a sound from Ichabod all day—not since he had found out, the night before, about Katrina. After all his hopes that after he freed her from Purgatory they might be reunited, that they could pick up their lives, somehow, where they had left off over two hundred years before, and to be so close to that goal—only to discover, on freeing her, that she was dead, and had been dead almost as long as he had… They had barely even had a chance to say goodbye, and Ichabod had said hardly a word to Abbie since.

She wanted to give him his space, but she was worried. Did he feel that she had abandoned him? The closed door seemed to say that he didn't want to be disturbed, but surely this total silence was unhealthy. 

Well, what was the worst that could happen? Ichabod could tell her to kindly go away.

Abbie knocked softly at the door. There was no sound from within. "Ichabod?" she said quietly, pushing it open.

He gave no indication that he had heard her, though he was clearly awake. He lay curled up on the bed, staring into space, his hands wrapped around his arms as if he were cold. He hadn't even bothered to take off his coat or his boots the night before.

Abbie hesitated on the threshold, then crossed the room. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. The only sign he gave that he had heard her was a dry gulp. She pressed her lips together, and taking a deep breath, she climbed onto the bed and curled up beside him, putting her arm around his waist.

He grabbed it convulsively, and for a moment Abbie thought he was angry, that he was going to push her away. Then she felt his shoulders begin to shake as he was wracked by sobs.

She held him tighter and waited for the storm to pass.


	4. Chapter 4

Jeff was right: being shot was just like being hit with a sledgehammer.

That was the thought in Abbie's head as she went down. It was only after she had struck the ground that the pain flared up. She cried out.

"Abbie!" she heard Ichabod shout, and then more shots. She clapped her hand to her left shoulder, digging her heels into the dirt in pain.

The sound of gunfire ceased, and then Ichabod was kneeling next to her, pulling off his coat.

"Did you get them?" she panted.

"No. They escaped."

"What? Go after them!"

"Certainly not." He was pulling out his shirttails, ripping his shirt apart for bandages.

"Crane!" she said in exasperation, trying to sit up. It was too much: she gave a cry of pain and fell back to the ground.

"Lie still!" he commanded her, none-too-gently. "You're bleeding quite heavily."

Abbie pressed the back of her head into the dirt and groaned. They had been chasing these cult members for two days, and now they were getting away. And her shoulder hurt like hell. Today just wasn't her day. She sucked the air in between her clenched teeth as Ichabod pressed a pad of cloth from his torn shirt against her shoulder. He didn't even apologize for causing her pain, as she half expected him to: he had dealt with too many wounds on the battlefield to be anything other than businesslike now. He took the other strips he had torn and tied the pad tightly in place.

Abbie groaned. How was the pain getting _worse?_ she wondered.

"Hello, this is Ichabod Crane," she heard Crane say, and turned her head to see him on her phone. She didn't even bother to wonder how he knew her pass code. "My friend has been shot." He paused, listening. "In the shoulder. She is conscious." Another pause. "We are in Rockefeller Park Preserve, south of Phelps Way, near Gory Brook." Trust Ichabod to have the map memorized, Abbie thought, and gave a chuckle which turned into a groan as her shoulder shifted. She opened her eyes again to see Ichabod looking down at her worriedly. He pressed his free hand to her shoulder. "Please hurry," he said into the phone a little more breathlessly than before: "she's bleeding through the bandage." He set the phone down and took off the remains of his shirt, tearing off more of it.

"If you sacrifice all your clothes, you won't be fit to be seen when the EMTs get here," Abbie joked faintly.

He smiled, placing more folded cloth on her shoulder and pressing it down firmly. "Ah, but I have not yet torn up my coat." Abbie tried to smile at his joke, but it was a short-lived attempt.

They were both silent for a long moment, the emergency operator completely forgotten. Ichabod lifted his hand for a moment and peeked at the bandage, then pressed his lips together.

"It is time for you to sit up, Miss Mills," he said, sliding his free hand under her back.

"Auurrrggh. Why?" she groaned, her eyes squeezed shut, as he pulled her up by her armpits into a sitting position and leaned her back against a tree.

"I am elevating the wound so that it is higher than your heart," he explained, pressing his hand to the bandage again.

The world was spinning. Abbie opened her eyes, trying to make it stop moving. Ichabod was sitting by her side, facing her, watching her anxiously. "I didn't think of that," she said, trying to remember what he had said to her only a few seconds before, trying to keep ideas from slipping from her mind. Anything to distract her from her pain—and to get that worried look off Crane's face. "It's my first gunshot wound." Ichabod's lips quirked. Pleased with her success, she added, "Have you ever been shot?"

"Astoundingly, no," Ichabod answered. "I have been stabbed, slashed, and nearly blown apart, but never shot." 

_Up_ had ceased to be a definite concept. Abbie slipped sideways, and Ichabod caught her, wrapping his free arm around her to hold her upright against the tree. She swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. "Miss Mills?"

"I can't say I recommend it," Abbie muttered.

She could feel Ichabod's breath on her face. "That's my brave girl," he murmured encouragingly. She supposed she should find that patronizing, but at the moment it was just a comfort. Crane was sitting so close to her that she could smell his familiar musk—a combination of earth, faint body odor, and wood smoke.

She could hear the wind pick up, but she couldn't feel it. In fact, she couldn't feel much of anything: even Ichabod's hand pressed firmly to her shoulder was beginning to seem a faraway thing. "Miss Mills?" she heard Ichabod say anxiously, as if from a distance. And then, even farther away, "Abbie!" But she was too tired to answer.

Her impressions after that were jumbled. New faces around her, movement. The leaves passing over her head, Ichabod looking down at her from his great height and saying something she couldn't hear. Something intrusive and plastic being put on her face, and Ichabod in the ambulance beside her, trying to keep his long legs out of the EMTs' way. A confusion of voices, fluorescent lights. Crane's voice, saying her name again, in a half-frantic tone that made her want to answer—if only she _could_ —and another voice replying, "Sir, this is as far as you can go."

000

Everything was dark, but she was warm and comfortable. There was no need for her to move or speak—or even to open her eyes. Two familiar, long-fingered hands were holding hers.

"Mr. Crane?" a kind female voice said softly. "She's stable, and she may not wake up for some time. Don't you want to go home and get some sleep? Or at least get something to eat in the cafeteria?"

"Thank you, Madam," Ichabod answered by her side, "but I shall remain here." He added quietly, "She is all I have."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is fluff, not h/c, but it was really popular when I posted it in a different form on [my RP blog](http://askcraneandmills.tumblr.com/), so I thought I'd include it here.

Abbie stared at the vitamins. What sort of vitamins did you _get_ for an eighteenth-century man? What kinds of chemicals did he not have enough of? He ate better than she did, that was for sure--more likely to cook for himself, less likely to eat a lot of frozen dinners. But what was his nutrition like _before_ his little two-hundred-year sleep? Was he going to suddenly collapse from an iron deficiency or get scurvy from a lack of Vitamin C?

"Hey, there." She glanced up to find a man grinning at her. He was wearing a tshirt and a suede jacket, constantly shaking his longish hair out of his face. He stuck one hand in his pocket casually. "I can't imagine _you_ need any vitamins." He scanned her up and down.

Abbie frowned. "They're for a friend." She turned back to the shelf, but it was difficult to concentrate when the man's eyes were still on her. He stepped closer, and she caught a whiff of alcohol. "You're really hot," he said quietly, in what was probably supposed to be a seductive tone.

"Hot and really busy shopping," she said firmly, in as business-like a manner as she could.

"You don't look to busy. You wanna come back to my place?"

 _What the HELL?_ Abbie thought angrily. Couldn't he take no for an answer? He was leaning in closer, using his height advantage to overshadow her. _Enough_.

"I am not interested," she said slowly and clearly. "You need to back up."

He straightened up, but didn't step back. "Geez, why you gotta be such a bitch?"

Suddenly Ichabod stepped around her and was face-to-face with the stranger--actually, since Ichabod was even taller than he was, it was more like nose-to-collarbone. "Shit!" the creeper exclaimed, jumping a little.

 _Where did_ he _come from?_ Abbie thought dazedly. She had left Crane in toiletries two minutes before, staring uncomprehendingly at shaving cream.

"Sir," Ichabod said, in a very quiet, very calm voice that made the hair on Abbie's neck stand up, "you will retract your insult to this lady, or you will answer to me."

The creeper was staring at Ichabod, deciding whether to call his bluff. He was just drunk enough to do it. "Mind your own business," he said belligerently.

"Public decorum is everyone's business," Ichabod answered in that too-calm voice. "Retract your insult."

"I can say what I want--it's a free country!"

 _Oooh_ , Abbie thought: _that was the wrong answer_.

But Ichabod was still icily calm, not even bothering to take up that line of the argument. "Very well. Shall it be swords or pistols?"

The creeper stared at him. "You crazy?"

"I am sane enough to know when a woman is attempting to politely rebuff my unwanted advances." Ichabod stepped even closer, and the man backed up a step.

He must have felt himself losing face. "I'm gonna call the cops!" he blustered.

"As you wish." Ichabod gestured back toward Abbie. "She's right there."

The creeper stared back and forth between Ichabod and Abbie, who changed her stance somewhat so that her badge, clipped to her belt as usual, was just visible. That was it: he was beaten and he knew it. "Sorry," he muttered.

Ichabod put his hand theatrically to his ear. "What was that?"

"Sorry," the creeper said a little bit more loudly, and practically fled the vitamin aisle.

Ichabod turned back to look at the shelf, not making eye contact with Abbie, but she could see the smile on his face--he was awfully pleased with himself.

Was it unworthy of her as a strong woman to let him take over like that? She wasn't sure. “You didn’t have to that," she finally said. "I can defend myself.”

"I know," Ichabod answered, picking up a bottle of multi-vitamins and placing it in his shopping basket, "but you shouldn’t have to."

Abbie really couldn't argue with that.


	6. Chapter 6

"Come on, Crane," Abbie said, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist. "Up we go." Ichabod, leaning heavily on her, caught the toe of his boot on one of the wooden steps of the cabin and nearly sent them both sprawling. Abbie got them both in the door, which was mercifully unlocked, and deposited her partner on the couch. She went back to the window and peeked out.

Even though it was noon, everything outside was in gloom, most of the sunlight cut off by the wall of Darkness around the cabin, separating them from their attackers. The spell seemed to be holding. Abbie took a deep breath. It had seemed the only option at the time--but what if it was the wrong decision?

A sound behind her drew her attention back to Ichabod. He had slumped over the side of the couch, barely able to keep his eyes open. Whatever this fever was he had contracted, it was really doing a number on him. There were dark smudges under his eyes, made more obvious by the paleness of his skin, but two bright, hectic spots of pink burned in his cheeks, and he shivered periodically.

"Come on," Abbie said, taking his arm and pulling him to his feet again. "Let's get you to bed."

She got him into the bedroom and laid him down on the bed, pulling off his boots and stockings. He closed his eyes the moment his head hit the pillow, and Abbie would have thought he was asleep if it weren't for his uneven breathing and periodic shivering. She pulled the blankets up over him and went to fetch some aspirin from the bathroom.

It was even darker out the kitchen windows when Abbie went to fill up a glass of water. She peered out the little window over the sink, trying to see something--anything. But the wall of darkness was too close. There had been no sound from outside since the spell had taken effect--no gunshots, no car engines... not even birdsong. It was eerie.

Abbie shook herself and took the water and the aspirin back to the bedroom. "Crane?" she said, turning on the small bedside lamp so she could see him in the gloom. She almost wished she hadn't. His position hadn't changed in the least since she had left him; he still lay awkwardly on his side, though at least the shivering had stopped. "Crane." She shook his shoulder, and he opened his eyes slowly. "I need you to sit up--you need to take this pill."

Ichabod attempted to comply, with alarming sluggishness. In the end, Abbie settled for getting up up on one arm. He took the pill, grimacing a little as he tasted the aspirin on its way down, and lay down again, a picture of exhaustion. She felt his forehead--he was burning up. She fetched a thermometer from the bathroom. "Crane? Open your mouth," she said. "This has to go under your tongue." He complied without opening his eyes or making any comment--certainly uncharacteristic of him and his endless curiosity about modern devices. All too soon it started beeping and Abbie pulled it out, turning it toward the lamp to see the digital readout. When she did, she nearly dropped it.

105°.

"Oh my God," she breathed. What did you even _do_ for a fever that high? She pulled out her phone and tried to connect to the internet. There was no signal.

Of course. She sighed deeply. The spell had cut off all interaction with the outside world. She couldn't call for an ambulance, or even get advice. She was on her own.

Wait--hadn't she seen a medical encyclopedia on the bookshelf in the living room? She sprinted out of the bedroom and scanned the shelves again. Yep--there it was! She didn't know how she'd remembered that. _Ichabod and his crazy memory must be rubbing off on me,_ she thought as she flipped to the "F" section.

There wasn't much on treatment for fevers--just a warning to call the doctor in severe cases ( _lot of help there, thanks_ ) and the suggestion of anti-febrile drugs ( _already done it_ ). _Otherwise,_ it read, _treatment is directed toward the underlying cause (for example, giving the appropriate antibiotics for a bacterial infection)._

Abbie gave a growl of frustration. Fat lot of help that was! But there was another paragraph: _Febrile seizures can often be prevented by cooling the entire body as soon as the fever starts, either in a lukewarm bath or by sponging with lukewarm water._

Now _that_ she could do. Abbie ran to the bathroom and grabbed a cleaning bucket from under the sink. The bath would probably be more effective, but there was no way she was going to be able to get all six feet and two inches of lethargic Ichabod into a tub on her own without killing him, or herself, or both of them. Sponging it would have to be.

She filled the bucket, grabbed a washcloth out of the cupboard, and hurried back to the bedroom. She stripped the blankets off of the bed and opened the front of Ichabod's shirt.

The motion seemed to rouse him from his lethargy: he moaned as she rolled him onto his back. "Katrina?" he murmured.

"No, Crane," she said, setting the bucket on the bedside table and soaking the washcloth. "It's Abbie."

"Abbie." He opened his eyes a crack as she sponged his forehead, his throat. "You shouldn't be here." His tone was urgent, though his words were slurred. "They're coming! You need to get out!"

"Crane, we're safe," she said, sponging his chest. "We did the spell for the Wall of Darkness, remember? It'll last twelve hours."

He looked at her in confusion for a moment. "Oh," he said sluggishly as his head dropped back to the pillow. "I had forgot."

Abbie looked down at him worriedly as she soaked the washcloth again. She wasn't sure what was worse: his silence or his confusion. She wrung out the washcloth and slipped it under his shirt--she remembered from her first aid courses that the armpits were an important place for heat retention.

"I'm sorry," Ichabod murmured. "I'm sorry Sir--I failed." He rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. "I failed..."

"You didn't fail at anything," Abbie said slowly and distinctly. "Everything's going to be just fine."

But was it? Twelve hours of isolation for them to regroup before they were attacked again--twelve hours of relative safety. But what if twelve hours wasn't enough--what if Ichabod wasn't recovered enough to help fight when the wall came down? Or worse, what if twelve hours was too long--what if Ichabod was dead by then?

Abbie realized that tears of desperation were running down her cheeks, and she wiped them away impatiently, soaking the washcloth again. "C'mon, Crane," she muttered. "Hang in there."

She kept sponging for a quarter of an hour, and Ichabod said nothing more, save a few moans and incoherent mutterings. He began to shiver again--and then the shivering grew more violent.

"Crane? Crane!"

He was wracked by uncontrollable shaking. Abbie knelt down by the bed, holding him in her arms as if she could stop the convulsions that shook him. She discovered, with shock, that she was praying, for the first time in years--begging God aloud to help him, to do something. Eventually the shaking stopped. Abbie smoothed the hair off of his forehead, sobbing a little. He was soaked with sweat--but his fever seemed lower.

She picked up the thermometer with shaking hands. "Ichabod?" she said quietly. "Ichabod, open your mouth, sweetie." She barely registered the term of endearment she had used as Ichabod opened his mouth and she slipped the thermometer under his tongue. In a minute more it beeped: 99°.

Abbie sagged with relief. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she breathed. Slowly she climbed to her feet and pulled the blankets up to his chin. He stirred slightly, and she leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Go to sleep," she murmured, and turned out the lamp.


	7. Chapter 7

As Ichabod fell down the uneven stone steps, he could hear Abbie shouting. "STOP! CRANE?" But that wasn't the most distressing sound: it was the cracking noise that came from his right leg.

It was followed almost immediately by a shriek, and a thumping noise as their attackers dumped Abbie down the stairs as well. Ichabod feared for a moment that she would fall on his injured leg, but he felt nothing as the thumping stopped. Abbie started cursing as what little light that flowed down the steps from the night sky above was shut out. There was a scraping noise, and then silence. They had been sealed into the cave in which Ichabod had first awakened, two years since.

Ichabod could hear Abbie scrabbling beside him, sitting up. "Shit, shit, SHIT. Crane?" she said, her voice worried.

"I'm here."

"Are you alright?"

 "I think my ankle is broken," he said a little faintly.

"Goddammit," she said under her breath, and he felt her hand on his arm. "Anything else? Can you sit up?"

 Ichabod complied. "No, I think I'm alright," he answered, stifling a groan. "Are _you_ injured?"

"No, just sore."

They were both silent for a moment in the darkness. "Why is it," Ichabod asked in the voice of long-suffering, "that fighting the Forces of Evil always seems to result in me being injured?"

"--he asked the girl who got shot," Abbie narrated.

Ichabod snorted. "Fair enough."

 "So." He heard Abbie climb to her feet, then curse as she hit her head on the low ceiling. "How the hell do we get out of here?"

"There's a mechanism in the stone at the left side of the staircase," he said, and she moved toward it. "Press down on the top."

There was a shuffling noise and a click, then a pause. "Nothing's happening," Abbie said shortly.

"Try it again."

There was another click. "It's not working!" Abbie complained, her voice pitched higher with anxiety.

 Ichabod fought his own fear down. "Maybe it's stuck," he said slowly and deliberately. _I sound like a schoolteacher_ , he thought.

Abbie must have thought so, too. "Fergodssake," she muttered, and he heard her crawl up the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to… move the… freaking DOOR," she grunted. He heard her fingers scrabbling on the rock.

He sighed and scooted over to the wall of the cave, sucking his breath in sharply through his nose when he jostled his ankle. From the sound, it seemed that Abbie was continuing her attack on the door, the shuffling and scraping punctuated occasionally with muttered curses. "Ouch!" she exclaimed.

 "What?"

 "I cut my damn finger with my pocket knife," she said, sounding like she was sucking on the wounded digit.

 "What are you doing with your pocket knife?" Ichabod exclaimed, sounding more exasperated than he meant to.

"Trying to dig around this …freaking door!" she answered angrily, obviously self-censoring. He heard some more scraping. "HELP!" she shouted. "CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?"

 "Lieutenant—"

 "HELP!"

"Abbie! Stop."

She stopped, but he heard her exhale sharply through her nose. "I don't like this habit you have," she said tersely, "of only calling me by my first name when you're telling me to give up."

Ichabod shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the cave wall. "I'm not telling you to give up," he said wearily. "I'm just saying you should conserve your energy for when we need it. It's the middle of the night, and no one is going to realize that we're missing until tomorrow morning at the earliest. We've had a long night: you should get some rest. Then in the morning, when there's some light to see by, Captain Irving will realize we're gone and remember what you told him about this cave. You can go back to shouting then." The speech was so well argued, he almost believed it himself. Almost.

Abbie sighed, sounding more tired now than angry. "Fine," she said, and came back down the stairs.

He reached out a hand to stop her running into him. "Careful."

"Mm." She took his hand and sat down beside him against the cave wall. After a minute she gave a deep sigh. "You're right; I'm beat." He felt her reach up and rub her arms for warmth.

"Here." He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him, rubbing her arm. She leaned her head on his shoulder. Slowly her breathing began to even out. She nuzzled down deeper into his embrace and was soon asleep.

He was sure, from the sound of her breathing, that her mouth had fallen open, and he wondered with a repressed chuckle, how badly she was drooling on his coat. Katrina used to tease him about drooling in his sleep…

Katrina. The thought almost made him stop breathing. Thinking of her still hurt—but that wasn't why. He felt suddenly unfaithful to her.

He knew, intellectually at least, that he had been nothing but faithful. He had clung desperately to the hope of their still being together, long after it should have been obvious to him that she was dead and gone. He had fought for and won her freedom from Purgatory, had saved her, had pushed past his anger and resentment at her keeping so many secrets from him… He had loved her to the end. And the end had come and gone.

He took a deep breath, smelling the strawberry scent of Abbie's hair in the dark. He had loved his wife. But she was dead. He was a widower, and his heart was free.

Only it wasn't. Even as he gave himself permission to let go of Katrina at last, he felt a rush of love filling up the gap she had vacated. He loved Abbie—had done so for a long time. He took a deep breath, letting the feeling flow over him, welcoming it at last.

 Abbie stirred and shifted positions, disturbed by his movement. He stilled himself until her breathing evened out again.

And in those few moments he had discovered another problem: how did Abbie feel about him?

She loved him, he was certain—but it was the love of comrades, the _philos_ —even _agape_ —of brothers-in-arms. Did it extend to _eros_? He doubted it. And if he hinted at any such thing, how would it affect their friendship? Their duty as witnesses?

At that moment, he thought he heard something above—something that sounded like a human voice. He strained his ears to hear: nothing. It was probably his imagination. …Then it came again, clearer and closer.

"Abbie," he said, shaking her shoulder. "I think someone's here!"

"Mm." She suddenly sat up. "What?"

The voice came again—this time clearly calling, "MILLS! CRANE!"

"HERE!" she shouted, scrambling to her feet and up to the slab. "HERE! OVER HERE!"

The sound of the shouting drew nearer, and soon it was obvious their rescuers were standing over the slab. "Mills?" It was Captain Irving's voice.

"Yeah!"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine! Crane's ankle's broken, though."

There was murmuring on the other side of the slab, and then Captain Irving said, "Stand back!"

Abbie ran back down the stairs, almost tripping in the dark, and in a minute they could hear the sound of some sort of machinery. In a few minutes, far less time than Ichabod expected, there was a cracking noise, and then Ichabod heard the mechanism release, and the stone door opened. Moonlight and electric light flooded into the cave.

"Thank God!" Abbie ran up the stairs and disappeared from Ichabod's sight.

In a minute Captain Irving came down the stairs. "Crane?"

Ichabod smiled up at him. "I am quite glad to see you, Captain."

Irving grinned. "Don't sound so surprised. How's your ankle."

"Not as well as I'd like."

Two EMTs came down the stairs as he spoke. One of them he recognized from his first experience with an ambulance. "Mr. Crane," she said drily. "Are you going to refuse treatment?"

"Not this time, Madam," he said, almost chuckling. "I give you free rein."


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm afraid we're going to have to cut it off."

Ichabod gave the doctor a look of longsuffering. "Very well," he said at last; "do what you must."

The doctor pulled a pair of sharp fabric scissors from a drawer and began to cut a slit down the outside of Ichabod's boot. Abbie winced sympathetically and wondered how Ichabod was ever going to find a replacement pair. But there was no way for the doctor to pull Ichabod's boot off over his broken ankle without doing some damage.

Finally the doctor carefully removed the boot and laid Ichabod's ankle bare. Sure enough, it was swollen and bruised. They took a few x-rays, Abbie standing in the booth. She had explained to him briefly what the x-ray machine did, and why he had to wear a lead apron. Despite the pain of his ankle, he was fascinated by the x-rays when they were developed, and annoyed the doctor by asking a lot of questions about how the x-ray worked. Abbie noticed that Ichabod kept rubbing his neck as they spoke.

"Crane, did you hurt your neck?" she interrupted suddenly.

"A little," he admitted.

The doctor, relieved to be able to get Ichabod off the subject of x-rays, immediately examined his neck. It clearly caused Ichabod pain to turn his head to the side.

"Hm. I don't like that," the doctor said. "I think, since we've got you here, we're going to get you an MRI. I suppose your insurance will cover it?"

Ichabod looked at Abbie. "Yeah," she answered, thankful once again that Captain Irving had figured out a way to get him on the payroll. The doctor left the room, and Ichabod stared at the x-rays again.

"It's rather like gazing upon my own mortality," he murmured. He shook himself and looked at Abbie. "What did the good doctor say he was going to procure for me?"

"An MRI. It's a test, like an x-ray, only it can see your soft tissues as well as your bones," Abbie explained.

The doctor re-entered with a boot, and explained to a surprised Ichabod that it was a walking cast, and that while wearing it he would be able to walk on his broken ankle. Despite this, however, and clearly to Ichabod's annoyance, they insisted on pushing him down to the MRI in a wheelchair rather than letting him walk.

The technicians took Ichabod through the questionnaire and gave him some scrubs to change into. Abbie, as was her usual practice when Ichabod was going to encounter something new, puzzling, and potentially anxiety-inducing, asked if she could accompany him in. The technicians agreed, but asked her to remove her jewelry and all the metal and electronics from her pockets first. Ichabod came out of the changing room looking even skinner than usual in his baggy scrubs, and was escorted into the MRI room. The technician, who introduced himself as Jason, had Ichabod lie down on the table. He gave him earplugs and then placed a brace on either side of his head.

"Okay," he said, handing him the rubber bulb. "If something happens and you need to get out, squeeze that."

Ichabod tried to nod and discovered he couldn't. "Very well," he answered. 

With an admonition to keep still, the technician wheeled him into the tube, and he and Abbie went into the booth. They were having a pleasant chat five minutes later when Abbie suddenly held her hand up. "What's that?" she asked. Over the noise of the machine, through the window of the booth they could hear a pounding noise, a yell, and finally the alarm from the squeeze-bulb. 

Jason ran back into the room, Abbie on his heels, and wheeled Ichabod out of the machine. Ichabod's face was white, and he was breathing quickly, like he had been running. "What is it?" Jason asked, releasing the braces.

"What do you mean by shutting people into a little tube like that?" Ichabod panted angrily as he sat up.

"Oh…" Jason said, the light dawning. "Are you claustrophobic?"

"Claustro… phobic?" Ichabod repeated.

"Afraid of small spaces."

"Yes, my Latin _and_ my Greek are perfectly good, thank you," Ichabod responded bitterly, "and why someone created such a monstrous neologism out of _two_ languages, I cannot comprehend."

"Alright," Jason said patiently. "We can get you something to take for the anxiety, if you like."

Ichabod glared at him, his chest still heaving. "Why is it that everyone in this society wants to inject me with something?" he stormed.

"Okay," Abbie said, putting a hand on Ichabod's arm. "He's just doing his job, Crane."

Ichabod shut his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. "My apologies, Jason," he said.

"That's okay," Jason answered. "There's an open MRI at Hudson Valley," he added, naming a hospital half an hour away from Phelps Memorial. "Dr. Jackson could probably give you a referral if you wanted to try that, instead. But there tends to be a bit of a wait for it—it might be a few weeks. And if you hurt your neck it'd be better if you knew now. Do you want to try the sedative? We can give you a really mild dose."

Ichabod's breathing, which had calmed somewhat, began to speed up again, and he set his mouth in a way that Abbie recognized.

"Can we—have a minute to discuss?" she asked.

"Of course." Jason made himself scarce.

"Why don't you lie down for a minute—catch your breath?" she suggested.

Ichabod complied without comment. After a few minutes, when his breathing sounded more normal, she said casually, "I didn't know you were claustrophobic."

"Nor did I," he admitted. "When I was young there was a secret stair in our house at my father's country seat. I used to play smugglers in it with my cousin. It never bothered me." He sighed. "I suppose the experience of having to dig oneself out of one's own grave can sour one on tight spaces."

They were both quiet for a minute. "Well, it looks like we've got a couple of choices," Abbie said at last. "Like Jason said, we can wait and get this done at Hudson Valley Hospital—but it'd probably be better to know sooner if something's wrong with your neck. We could also let Jason give you a mild sedative."

Ichabod shook his head, and winced at the movement. "I dislike the idea of being drugged almost as much as the thought of going back into that machine."

"Do you want to wait and get the referral to Hudson Valley?"

Ichabod took a deep breath. "No." He looked over at Abbie. "Let's just… try this again."

"Alright. Are you comfortable?"

"I'm a bit cold in these… strange, ill-fitting clothes," he admitted.

Abbie fetched a blanket and put it over him. "Now, I want you to think of something pleasant—a daydream. Shut your eyes." Ichabod obeyed. "Now imagine you're there. Everything's peaceful and quiet, and you're nodding off to sleep. Keep your breathing calm: count to four as you inhale and eight as you exhale." She knocked on the door to the booth, and Jason fitted the braces back on Ichabod's neck, put the squeeze-bulb in his hand, and wheeled him into the machine once more. Abbie kept her hand on Ichabod's leg, reassuring him of her presence. Jason got her a chair and then went back into the booth.

The rest of the MRI went off without a hitch.

000

The MRI turned out to be normal, so Dr. Jackson prescribed ibuprofen and send Ichabod home with the walking cast. It was early morning when they arrived back at Abbie's place, but they agreed that they wanted something to eat before they caught up on their sleep. Abbie went to the kitchen to get some food together while Ichabod changed clothes. When the door opened again a few minutes later, Abbie was a little surprised to see him in the jeans and button-down shirt she had bought for him when he had first arrived in Sleepy Hollow, and which he had barely worn since, except when his own things were in the wash. "The old shirt and breeches needed a wash, huh?" she said, turning back to her preparations for dinner.

"Yes," he said slowly as he joined her in the kitchen, walking gingerly on his cast. "But I think they also need a rest." She looked up at him. "I think it is time I embraced the twenty-first century."

She stared. "Really?"

He looked away, pulling a knife out of the drawer to help her with the vegetables. "Really. The past is past—I think it is time I looked forward to the future." He was intent on his task, but after a moment he glanced up at her. She realized there was a broad smile on her face. He returned it, and they silently returned to their tasks, standing side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it that these chapters get harder to write as I go? Oh well. At least I've got ideas for the next three of them lined up!


	9. Chapter 9

Abbie was awakened by the most unpleasant sound on her personal list of sounds she didn't want to hear in the middle of the night: heaving.

She crawled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. "Crane?" she croaked.

"Ugh. Go back to bed, Abbie," he groaned.

She ignored this, flipping on the bathroom light. Ichabod grunted and squeezed his eyes shut against the light. He was shirtless, in the sweatpants he had taken to wearing to bed, hunched miserably over the toilet.

"I'm not properly dressed—" he began.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I've seen you shirtless before," Abbie said, walking over and feeling his forehead. "Hell, you've seen _me_ shirtless. Quite early in our relationship, as a matter of fact. You've got a fever."

"That must be why my head hurts so much," he replied, leaning his forehead on his hand and wincing.

"Maybe it's food poisoning," Abbie suggested.

"What?"

"I mean, maybe something you ate had gone bad or was infected with something. You had that chicken sandwich at the restaurant this evening."

"Mm. Maybe."

"Here, some Pepto might help." Abbie pulled the pink bottle out of the cupboard and measured out a bit for him, which he swallowed without comment, though he grimaced at the flavor. She then went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water for him. "Thank you," he said when she brought it back, and winced as he reached for it.

"Your arm still hurting?" she asked, looking at the patch of gauze she had taped over the slash on his upper arm. One of Moloch's minions had gotten a bit too close with a long-bladed dagger that afternoon.

"It is a little tender," he admitted, sipping at the water.

"You should have let me take you to get it stitched up."

"Phelps Memorial is no doubt an excellent hospital, but I am rather tired of visiting it," he said drily, climbing to his feet as Abbie tried to hide a shiver—she had been sleeping in a pair of shorts and a tshirt. "I think I will do, now—thank you. You should go back to bed."

"Alright. Feel better," she said, and headed back to her own room.

000

She was just having a wonderful dream about seeing a sunrise from a mountaintop when she was awakened a second time. "Abbie?" Ichabod called, in that dubious tone she remembered using herself to wake her mother at night when she was sick.

"Yeah?" she answered, her voice muffled by sleep.

"I think—something's wrong," he said breathlessly.

She was out of bed in an instant. Ichabod never complained about how he felt. If it was bad enough for him to wake her up, it was _bad._

She heard a thump and a groan as she reached the living room, and she quickly snapped the light on. Ichabod, now wearing a tshirt as well, was curled up on the floor, clutching his stomach. Even as she ran over and knelt beside him he groaned again, curling in on himself.

"It's—gotten worse," he moaned. 

Abbie moved to feel his forehead, and bumped his arm. He cried out, drawing back from her touch.

"What—?" she said, and carefully peeled up some of the tape to look at his wound. It was red and inflamed, and there was a red, swollen trail that followed his vein up his arm.

"That dagger…" she said: "it must have been poisoned!"

Ichabod pressed the side of his face into the carpet and moaned as another spasm of pain convulsed him. Abbie ran for her phone and called 911. She was pretty sure the dispatcher was going to get sick of hearing her voice one of these days. She asked for an ambulance and described Ichabod's symptoms. "I think it's caused by a poisoned wound," she added.

"Alright. The ambulance is on its way," the dispatcher told her, her voice professionally calm. "Try to keep him comfortable."

Abbie grabbed a pillow off of the couch and tucked it under Ichabod's head. The spasms seemed to have stopped temporarily; he lay shivering on the floor, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. She ran to her room and pulled a blanket off of her bed and threw it over him. "It's gonna be okay," she said, pushing his tousled, sweat-soaked hair off of his face. "The ambulance will be here soon."

"Abbie," he said quietly, reaching for her hand, "I don't think—I— _augh!_ "

She put her arm around him, rubbing his back, murmuring encouragement and comfort to him as he convulsed, gripping her hand so hard she was sure he was leaving bruises. "It's okay," she said over and over. "You're gonna be just fine. Just hang on, sweetie, okay? Just hang on. They're coming. You're going to be fine."

He fell back on the pillow again, panting. His grip on her hand thankfully loosened. "Abbie," he said, blinking up at her, apparently unable to focus on her face. "I don't think I'm going to make it."

"No, you are, Crane. Modern medicine is a great thing, remember? You said so yourself."

"If—if I don't. I want you to know." He swallowed hard and drew her hand to his heart. "I—"

There was a pounding on the door. "Oh, thank God," Abbie said, jumping up on shaky legs to let in the EMTs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe it was just that last chapter that was hard. This one FLEW.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, by popular demand (and by popular I mean marshamallowdeviant and Alipeeps), a little follow-up to Chapter 9. :)

Crane cracked his eyes open and immediately shut them again with a sigh. A hospital room. Again. At least now he had been in one enough times to recognize it: the first time he had come to in a hospital he had been extremely disoriented.

Why was he there? It took a moment for him to remember. The soreness of his stomach reminded him. Ah, yes, the poisoned wound and the lovely bout of spasms. At least they seemed to be over. He felt completely wrung out, but there was no pain but a lingering soreness.

A tickle in his throat caused him to cough, and the movement hurt his battered abdominal muscles. He groaned.

A sound to his right made him turn his head: Abbie, sitting curled up in a chair in the corner with her coat pulled over her like a blanket, rubbed sleepily at her eyes. She glanced over and met his eyes. "Oh! You're awake!" She sat up, grimacing as she unbent her stiff legs. "How do you feel?"

"Considerably improved," he tried to say, but began coughing again.

She jumped up and poured a cup of water from the pitcher beside the bed. He gulped it down thirstily. She filled it up again and he drained it once more. "What happened?" he asked, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"What do you remember?"

"I remember the ambulance, and then arriving at the hospital…" he said slowly.   
"I'm afraid that's all."

She nodded. "They gave you a sedative, and then had to figure out what you'd been poisoned with. It… took awhile." 

"How long?"

"Too long for comfort." He thought he saw her shiver. "It turned out to be a mixture of venoms. Luckily, they had an antidote." She gestured to the nearly-empty bag hanging by the bed. Ichabod frowned down at his IV feed: he knew these devices were helpful, but the very idea of having a needle in his vein made him profoundly uncomfortable.

"So… what was it you were going to tell me?" Abbie asked. He looked up at her again in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"Right before the ambulance showed up. You said there was something you wanted me to know."

"Oh." He swallowed. "I just… wanted to tell you how much your friendship has meant to me."

She smiled and reached down to squeeze his hand. "It's meant a lot to me, too. And I'm glad it's not ending anytime soon."

He smiled and glanced down at her hand. It was darkened and discolored. He frowned as he lifted it. "Your hand— _I_ didn't do that, did I?"

"Nope!" Abbie said, a little too quickly. "I hit it on the door of the ambulance."

He managed a tense smile. "Thank you," he said slowly. "For… risking yourself in the ambulance for me."

She smiled back. "You're welcome." Ichabod looked at her dark, long-lashed eyes: hadn't that always been a trope of love ballads? The black-eyed maiden? He suddenly understood the appeal.

"Well, I should let you rest," Abbie said suddenly. "I'll be back this afternoon with some real clothes for you and we'll see if they'll let you come home. Get some sleep."

He nodded, blushing a little at the thought of her handling his clothing. He lifted her hand as if to bring it to his lips, but then let go. "Thank you," he said again, flexing his fingers nervously.

"No problem." She smiled down at him, her black eyes crinkling. "See you later."

He watched her leave and shut his eyes with a sigh.


	11. Chapter 11

There was a growl of frustration from Abbie's room. Ichabod raised his head from his book. "Abbie? Are you well?"

"It's these… damn… burrs!" she answered, and in a moment she appeared in the living room, her comb in her hand and a look of vexation on her face. They had passed through the woods on their latest little adventure, and the only casualty this time was that Abbie had brushed against a sticker bush. It was a particularly pernicious variety, and a clump of burrs with their needle-like spines were matted in her hair. "I'm going to have to cut my hair!" she said, her tone of exasperation only partially masking her actual distress.

"You shall _not_ cut your hair," he said firmly, holding out his hand for the comb and setting aside his book. She gave it to him, and took the seat he indicated on the ottoman in front of the couch. He sat forward and began meticulously freeing her hair from the burrs, one strand at a time.

As he worked he silently considered the strangeness of his position. In his time, a woman never wore her hair down in public after she had grown up and officially entered society. To see a woman with her hair down was the privilege of her husband. To _touch_ it…

Abbie's soft chuckle distracted him. "What is it?" he asked.

"You're so gentle!" she exclaimed. "My mother used to _pull_. When she finished corn-rowing my hair, I felt like she had put my scalp through a wringer."

Ichabod smiled. "I could comb a little harder, if it would make you feel better."

She laughed. "No, thank you! I like your approach."

He removed one of the burrs and placed it on the end table. "You're good at this," she commented. "Have you done it before?"

"Removed burrs from someone's hair? No." He remembered brushing Katrina's hair in the evening as she sat at her toilet table: long strokes, pulling the oils down from her scalp to keep her hair soft and shining. Abbie's hair was rather different. But everything about this new life was different. (He removed another burr.) And his love for Abbie was different than his love for Katrina. Katrina had been an ideal: love at first sight, a brave and beautiful goddess the hem of whose gown he would have kissed. Too much of an ideal, maybe. He had known so little about her, even after they had married. She had kept so much from him: to protect him, it was true, but nonetheless the silences between them had kept him from truly knowing her. Abbie, on the other hand… He smiled. Their first meeting had been under such inauspicious circumstances, and yet they had so quickly moved to intimacy, to comradeship. Abbie had kept nothing back from him, had begun to reveal her heart from the very first day. She had never lied to him. He could trust her implicitly.

"What?" 

"Hm?"

"You sighed," she said.

"Oh." He searched for something to say. "I find this process… soothing."

"Me too. Nobody's played with my hair in years. Jenny used to do it when we were kids."

"Well, the experience is about to come to an end. This is the last burr." He placed it on top of the small pile on the end table, and combed the last few spines from her hair. "There. Finished."

" _Thank_ you," she said emphatically, getting up and taking the comb. "You're a life-saver."

He laughed. "For combing your hair?"

She laughed too as she gathered up the burrs. "No. Just for being here." She leaned down and gave him a peck on the cheek. He stopped breathing and felt his face burn. "You're welcome," he managed as she dropped the burrs in the trash and headed back to her own room.


	12. Chapter 12

Ichabod checked the time on his cell phone and smirked at himself. _Very modern of you_ , he thought. He was frequently an object of humor to himself now that he had taken to wearing modern clothing.

One thing he hadn't started doing was driving—which was why he was now waiting for Abbie. She had said she would pick him up at the parking lot by the river at three. It was now a quarter after, and he still hadn't spotted her.

He put the phone back into his pocket and tried to relax, leaning back a little in his seat on the picnic bench along the river. A quarter of an hour was no reason to worry—though if it stretched to twenty minutes, he would call her. Perhaps something had happened to delay her?

A minute later Abbie's car came into view, moving fast—she must have realized she was late. She slowed down and turned right down the sloping entrance of the parking lot.

But the van behind her didn't stop.

Ichabod didn't even realize he was shouting her name as the van struck the back corner of her car with a heart-shaking BANG! Her back window shattered instantly, spraying glass in a semi-circle as her vehicle spun a hundred and eighty degrees, then slid backward down the bank, narrowly missing a tree and coming to rest as the back tire struck the railroad ties along the edge of the parking lot.

Ichabod was halfway across the distance before he even realized he'd moved. His heart was in his throat—it felt like it was choking him. In a moment he was next to Abbie's car, pulling the door open.

"I'm fine," she said calmly, turning off the engine and unbuckling her seatbelt. "I'm fine, Crane." She climbed out of the car.

"Are you sure?" He held her at arm's length, scanning her quickly for some sign of blood or bruises. She seemed alright.

"I'm sure." She smiled up at him.

The relief was overwhelming. Without thinking he leaned down toward her—then catching himself, straightened up with a blush and dropped his gaze.

Abbie looked at him for a moment, then pulled his head down and kissed him.

He froze for a moment in disbelief, then wrapped his arms around her and picked her up off of her feet.

"Hey! Hey, are you alright?"

Ichabod lifted his head, half-dazed, and set Abbie back on her feet.

"Are you alright?" Another man, in mottled brown and green garments and boots that came halfway up his thighs, was running toward them as fast as his strange gear would allow.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Abbie said. Ichabod shook himself and stepped back from her.

"I was too far away to get the other vehicle's plate number," the man said as he reached them.

"What?" Abbie shook her head as if clearing it, and turned to look up at the road. The van that had hit her was gone. "Well, what an asshole," she said without rancor.

"You want me to call the cops?"

"No, I got it," she answered, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

"I was down knee-deep in the river when I heard the noise," the man said, ignoring the fact that Abbie was on the phone. "Probably scared off all the fish when I ran for the bank!" He laughed heartily.

Ichabod felt himself fidgeting, but the man showed no disposition to go away. He wondered how the man ever managed to catch any fish if he talked this much. In fact, the man stayed and talked to the two of them nonstop until the tow truck came and another officer showed up to take their statements and give her and Ichabod a ride home. Even then they had trouble shaking him off: the fisherman was still talking as they climbed into the other officer's car, and he waved as they drove away.

000

"Thanks again, Jones," Abbie said as she shut the door. She turned toward the living room to find Ichabod looking at her expectantly and took a deep breath. "We should… probably talk," she said, looking away.

Ichabod cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if—" He broke off and gestured helplessly.

"What are _you_ sorry for? _I'm_ the one who kissed _you_ ," Abbie pointed out. "Unless…" She looked up at him worriedly. " _Should_ I be apologizing? I mean…"

Ichabod stepped forward and took her hand. "No, don't apologize. I—was certainly not offended. I just thought, maybe—it was the situation, the relief, and… maybe you regretted it." He paused and went on hurriedly, "And, if you do, I swear, I would forget that it ever happened—"

"Ichabod, do I have to kiss you again to shut you up?" Abbie said with a shaky laugh. "The only reason I would regret it is if _you_ did."

Ichabod smiled warmly down at her and bent his head. Their first kiss had been intense, sudden—almost like the jolt when her car had been hit. This one was slow, building in power, in heat. He didn't pick her off her feet, but she found herself on her toes, straining upward, the fingers of one hand tangling in his hair as she pressed him closer to her.

At last Ichabod straightened up. His face was as flushed as hers felt, and both of them took a deep breath. He took her hand and held it in both of his. "Grace Abigail Mills, will you do me the honor of your hand?"

Abbie stared at him. "You—you're asking me to marry you."

He smiled. "Yes."

She shook her head. "What?—No!"

His face fell—she swore she could see his heart breaking. He gulped and stepped backward. "My apologies Madam," he said with a brief bow, and quickly turned to go.

"Wait—no—Ichabod!" She leapt forward and grabbed his hand. "It's not like that." He looked at her, confusion and hurt in his eyes. "I—" she shut her eyes for courage. "I love you. But—this isn't how it's done."

She opened her eyes again to see his expression go from one of elation to confusion. "What do you mean?"

"We can't just jump straight into marriage. We have to get to know each other first."

He was still confused. "We know each other quite well," he pointed out.

"Yes, but… we have to _date_ first." He was still frowning. "It's how it's _done_. I—have to _adjust_ to the idea of being in a relationship with you," she added with a smile. "And we have to make that relationship public, and date for awhile, or people will think we're—too eager."

His expression cleared. "Ah, I see. Very well—I will let you dictate the pace."

She smiled irresistibly. He was always so formal—but that kiss certainly hadn't been. "Well, the pace right now," she said, sitting down on the couch and pulling him down next to her, "involves more of _this_."

He chuckled, but didn't argue as she kissed him again.

000

They made dinner together as usual—only Abbie smiled like an idiot the whole time. Plus Ichabod was suddenly much more willing to touch her. He had always kept a respectful distance before, but their acknowledged relationship changed everything, apparently. Well, she wasn't going to complain. It was nice to have him brush against her arm as he reached for the vegetable oil, or put his hand on her shoulder when he fetched the measuring cup down for her from the top shelf. They had a companionable meal, and in the evening, when Ichabod usually sat down in the living room with a book and Abbie sat on the other end of the couch with her laptop, she curled up next to him instead with the novel she'd been meaning to start. They read together in complete contentment, with his arm around her shoulders.

"That is the third time you have yawned," Ichabod said at last, smiling down at her.

She blinked and marked her place in the book. "I guess it's time for bed," she said, but didn't get up. "I'm just so comfortable…"

He chuckled and rose himself from the couch, pulling her to her feet. "Come along," he said mildly, and she went with him, laughing.

At the door of her bedroom he stooped to kiss her again. When he would have pulled away she held him tighter, and he didn't demur. After a few moments, she slowly began to pull him backward with her, into the room. 

He suddenly stopped stock-still and stood up straight. "What are you doing?" he said, confused and a little stern.

"I'm… uh…" Abbie suddenly couldn't speak—she felt a blush flood over her cheeks.

Ichabod looked at her, at the bed, and back again. " _Get to know each other_ ," he quoted slowly. "I see." He looked her in the eye. "Abbie, I will not bed you until we are married."

Abbie felt tears spring to her eyes—she wasn't sure if they were from anger, disappointment or shame. "Fine," she said shortly. "If you don't want to—"

"Abbie." He caught her hand and she looked up at him again. "I _want_ to," he said slowly. "But I will not debauch you. I respect you too much." Abbie stared at him. "A man debauches his whore," he clarified, "but the body of his wife is sacred to him." He gave her a gentle smile, and sank into that graceful, courtly bow, pressing her fingers fervently to his lips. Then he was gone. Abbie heard his bedroom door shut behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

When Abbie emerged from her bedroom the next morning, it was to see Ichabod sitting at the kitchen table, reading. He looked up with a smile as she approached.

"Good morning, Treasure," he said. "How do you feel this morning?"

Abbie, who had had trouble getting to sleep the night before, frowned in surprise. He clarified, "After your little adventure yesterday."

"Ohhh," Abbie said. The car accident. She had nearly forgotten it in everything that had followed. "My neck and my abs are pretty sore—I feel like I've been doing too many sit-ups—but I'm fine."

"Good." Ichabod had gotten up and pulled out a chair for her, and now bustled around the kitchen, fetching her some coffee from the pot he had brewed before she woke. "Would you like some eggs?" he asked, opening the fridge.

"Can we… um… talk first?" Abbie said uncomfortably.

Ichabod nodded and sat down, apparently not at all surprised by this request.

"I—about our conversation last night," Abbie said slowly. "I know—we've got a difference of culture going on. I just wanted to come to an understanding about what our relationship means. For both of us." Ichabod nodded and waited for her to continue. "The—physical side of a relationship is considered perfectly acceptable in my time—before marriage, I mean," she added, uncomfortably. It was weird the effect Ichabod had on her—since when couldn't she say the word _sex?!_ "In fact, in most circles, it's… kinda expected."

Ichabod nodded. "I had gathered as much from the television and movies I have seen," he admitted. "I know that the sexual mores are not nearly so strict as they were in my time. I should have realized it last night."

"So—do you see how your words last night sounded to me—as a modern woman?" she asked.

"You thought it sounded like a rejection of our relationship," he answered slowly.

"Or a rejection of my right to make decisions about my own body," she added in a rush.

"I see. But you know I did not mean either of those things," he said, and she nodded, staring hard at her coffee. There was a pause. "You asked me to wait—to _date_ for awhile before we marry," he said at last, and she looked up at him in surprise at what seemed, to her, to be a change of subject. "You seemed to say that you want to marry, but not yet, because according to the strictures of your culture, it wouldn't be right. I—" He took a deep breath. "I want to… be with you, but not just yet: because by the strictures of _my_ culture, it wouldn't be right. Not so much for religious or moral reasons," he added quickly as she opened her mouth to argue, "but because by the standards of my culture, it would be showing the deepest disrespect to you. I understand that you don't see it that way—that it doesn't seem disrespectful to _you_. But it is wrong for _me_. It would be like asking me to curse you. I know that it would not harm you, and that you would understand—but I could not do it."

Abbie frowned in thought for a moment. "You know, I've—been with men before," she said uncomfortably.

He looked down at his hands, folded over his closed book. "I was under that impression, yes," he agreed softly.

"…You don't mind?"

"I wouldn't say _that_ ," he answered, looking up with a slight smile, "but I am not… inexperienced either. We both have a past." He paused and looked down again. "If you do not want… to wait… I understand."

Abbie looked at his bowed head as he waited for her verdict, and suddenly felt a tender smile spread across her face. She _didn't_ particularly want to wait, but how could she say no to a man who was so concerned with her honor that he was willing to lose her rather than do something to her that he felt was wrong? "Many people have waited in the past," she said at last. "I suppose I can do the same."

He smiled and took her hand, bringing it up to his lips. "For the first time since I awoke in this century," he said quietly, holding it in both of his own, "I am looking forward to the future."

They sat in happy silence for a moment, and then Ichabod cleared his throat. "I suppose it is just as well anyway," he said, sitting back in his chair, though he retained her hand. "I realized later that it would complicate matters immensely for you to be with child while we are attempting to battle the Apocalypse. It is probably better for us to wait to marry for a time."

Abbie grinned. "Oh, Ichabod. Life with you is never boring." He frowned at her in confusion. "We have really effective forms of contraception now."

He was still frowning. "If you are referring to condoms, I know that they are not always effective," he warned her. "The linen may break."

" _Linen?_ " she exclaimed, laughing. "You mean you had linen condoms in the eighteenth century?" He nodded, and she laughed again. "Well, ours are more effective than that. Besides, what I was actually referring to was birth control pills. They—affect a woman's cycle so she won't conceive. So even after we… marry… we can wait until we have kids. And not have to wait to… you know."

He smiled at her. "How has this conversation turned us into uncomfortable adolescents?" he asked.

"I've been wondering that myself," she laughed, getting up (and wincing, as her abs twinged). "Let's have some breakfast."

Ichabod insisted on making them both omelettes, so Abbie made some toast to go with it. When it popped she grabbed the jam out of the fridge and looked for the butter. It was sitting by the stove, as Ichabod had been using it. "Babe, could you pass the butter?"

She looked up a moment later to find him regarding her in amused confusion. " _Babe?_ " he repeated incredulously.

"What? You called me Treasure earlier," she pointed out. 

"That's hardly as undignified as babe," he argued, handing her the butter.

"Since when do terms of affection have to be dignified?"

" _Touché_."

She buttered the toast and poured out some orange juice for them both. "Bring me your plate, Flitter-mouse," he said at last: "your eggs are almost done."

" _Flitter-mouse?_ " she exclaimed, laughing. "What kind of a name is _that?_ "

He was grinning. "If you can call me _babe_ ," he said, stepping over, and lifting her chin with one finger, "I can call you _mon ange, mon coeur… ma mie_." He bent down and kissed her.

"My omelette is burning," she murmured after a long moment.

"Let it burn," he answered briefly. She agreed without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I took so long to update. I've got a LOT of homework over break.
> 
> So, I've got a question for you. I've run out of workable hurt/comfort ideas for this fic. All the ideas I have left are distinctly fluffy. I know the point of this fic was hurt/comfort--so do you mind if I switch to the fluff? Or would you like me to start a new fic for the fluff? It's a lot of stuff about Jeremy...


	14. Chapter 14

Abbie shaded her eyes from the brightness of the figure that stood before them. "Because you have saved me, Ichabod Crane," the bright spirit said, in a deep and thrilling voice, "I shall grant you your deepest desire."

"I—don't understand," Ichabod began as the figure raised its hand. The light pulsed around him, and he began to fade into the brightness.

"Ichabod!" Abbie said in alarm, and lunged toward him, grabbing his arm.

"You have one hour," the spirit said as the world faded around them. Abbie reeled and she and Ichabod leaned against one another for support and looked around in shock.

The Old Dutch Church had disappeared. They stood in an open, grassy space, behind a row of stone and wooden houses. Beyond these buildings they could see a dirt road, with a few people passing back and forth. The men wore tricorn hats, boots, breeches and button-down coats. The women wore bonnets and long dresses.

"Oh my God," Abbie breathed.

She could feel Ichabod's tension and excitement. "I'm back," he whispered.

She turned to him, frowning. "THIS is your deepest desire?!" she demanded.

He looked down at her, startled. "No," he said, clearly confused. "It's not. I want to be with you—no matter what the century. And we have work to do in the twenty-first. But—" He looked down at the road again. "I must admit that I have longed to see it once more."

"She—it—said we had one hour," Abbie mused. "Maybe one hour to be in this time and then we go back to our own?"

He nodded. "That seems likely. Shall we?" He gestured toward the road, then stopped again. "This will never do," he said, looking down at her.

"What?"

"Your clothing. Mine would be strange enough, but yours… You cannot walk about in trousers."

She crossed her arms. "So what am I supposed to do?"

Ichabod looked around at the nearby houses. "This way," he said, sneaking quickly down the hill toward one of the houses. Abbie followed.

It was apparently wash day: an empty tub stood next to a clothesline with a number of garments on it, nearly dry. "Here," Ichabod said, glancing around as he pulled a dress off of the line.

Abbie took off her leather jacket and he slipped the dress over her head and quickly tightened the laces for her, his long fingers flying through the job with well-practiced ease. "And you'll need a head-covering…" he added, pulling a mob cap off of the line. "Tuck your hair up into it."

"Seriously?" Abbie complained, but did as he said.

"It should really be a hat or a bonnet, for outdoor wear," he murmured as he straightened it and tucked up a loose strand of her hair, "but it will satisfy the demands of decency. Come." He held out his arm and she took it.

"Shouldn't you have a hat as well?" she asked.

"Yes. But I am accustomed to being stared at for wearing clothes of the wrong century," he said, smiling down at her briefly as they stepped out into the road—Abbie would have hesitated to call it a street. Sure enough, passersby were staring at them. Abbie tried to act natural, but couldn't help doing a little staring of her own.

"Is this Sleepy Hollow?" she asked quietly.

Ichabod had to duck his head to hear her question. "No," he answered, equally quietly. "I don't recognize this town."

They passed a number of houses, a livery stable, and a inn, before reaching a church on the outskirts of the town. There was a large building next to it, with a sign, reading, "John Whitehead Home for War Orphans."

Ichabod stopped suddenly, staring at the sign. Abbie looked up at him. There was a frown on his face, and she could feel his agitation through the tenseness of his arm.

"Let's go in," she suggested quietly, and with a nod, he led the way toward the door.

They were only halfway there when they heard a sound from the church—a whistling noise, as of something swishing through the air, and the cries of a child.

Ichabod dropped Abbie's arm and sprinted to the door of the church, throwing it open and striding inside. She followed him, and stepped inside just in time to see him snatching a switch from the hand of a bewigged clergyman. A little boy knelt nearby, staring up at the two of them in teary-eyed astonishment—an eerily familiar doll on the ground beside him.

"How dare you, Sir!" the clergyman exclaimed. 

For a moment Abbie thought Crane was going to hit him with the switch. "Ichabod!" she said warningly.

Crane snapped the switch in half and threw it contemptuously on the floor. "I am Jeremy's _father_ ," he snarled: "Ichabod Crane. How dare _you_ raise a hand to my son?"

The clergyman was startled. "But Captain Crane is dead," he argued.

"You have clearly been misinformed."

The clergyman's face hardened again. "If you wish to take charge of that demon-born brat—"

Ichabod grabbed him by the throat and nearly lifted him off his feet. "Crane!" Abbie exclaimed and sprang forward, grabbing his wrist. "Let him go!"

Ichabod glanced at her and dropped the man with a look of disgust. The reverend crumpled and sat gasping on the floor for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the church. Ichabod turned back to Jeremy, who was still staring up at them, and knelt down. "Jeremy," he said, his quiet, gentle voice a shock after the violence he had been willing to offer the minister, "I'm your father." He reached out a hand to touch Jeremy's cheek: the boy didn't flinch. "And I am so sorry it took me so long to find you."

"You're—my Papa?" 

Ichabod swallowed and nodded. Jeremy threw himself forward and flung his arms around his father's neck.

Ichabod's face crumpled, and tears ran down his cheeks as he pressed his son to him.

Abbie wiped at her own cheeks and waited. Eventually Ichabod pulled back and held his son's shoulders, staring at Jeremy's face like he was trying to memorize it.

"Ichabod," she said softly, and touched his shoulder. "We only have a few more minutes."

He shook himself as if he were waking up. "My deepest desire…" he murmured. "Jeremy," he said quickly, turning back to his son. "In a few minutes we have to leave this place. Do you want to come with us?"

Jeremy looked from Ichabod to Abbie and back. "I could live with you?" he said.

"Yes."

"And you'd take me away from here?"

"Yes."

"Far away?" 

"Very far. And…" Ichabod added slowly, "you could never come back."

"Take me with you!"

Ichabod smiled and kissed Jeremy's hair. "We will." He turned at a shuffling noise behind him. "Abbie, what are you doing?"

"I'm not stealing some poor woman's clothes and taking them to the twenty-first century," she said, struggling to pull the bodice of the dress over her head.

"Here." He gathered it up and pulled it off for her, draping it over the front pew. "Jeremy, this is my very dear friend, Miss Abbie Mills."

"How do you do," Jeremy said politely. 

"I'm glad to finally meet you, Jeremy," she answered.

There was noise of shouting from outside. "A devil-sent spirit!" the clergyman could be heard yelling. "He claimed to be Ichabod Crane, risen from the dead!"

Abbie shrugged on her jacket and checked her watch. "Less than a minute. Places."

Ichabod picked up Jeremy and Abbie took his arm. "Ready?"

The light began to grow around them as the door of the church was thrown open. "There they are!" someone shouted.

"My doll!" Jeremy suddenly said, his voice panicked.

Keeping a good grip on Ichabod's arm, Abbie reached out and snatched the doll from the floor just as the light flashed blindingly bright. She heard the reverend and the men he had brought with him shouting louder, then a sudden silence.

The three of them stood in the living room of her house. They looked at one another for a long moment, and then Abbie and Ichabod both heaved a sigh of relief. Jeremy shifted uncomfortably in his father's arms: his back was clearly paining him.

"We must take him to the hospital," Ichabod said quickly, and turned toward the door.

"No!" Abbie said, tightening her grip on his arm. "We can't."

"Abbie, he is hurt! He needs medical attention!"

"We can't take him to the hospital, Ichabod," she repeated. "When they see the marks on his back, and they hear that he's your son, they're going to think _you_ did that to him. Child abuse. They'll take him away from you—put him in the foster system."

Ichabod and Jeremy's grip on one another visibly tightened. "What do we do?" Ichabod asked grimly.

"We'll clean him up ourselves," she said, leading the way to the bathroom.

Ichabod sat Jeremy on the edge of the tub, and Abbie gave him his doll to hold. Dried blood had stuck his shirt to his wounds, so they soaked it with a wet washcloth so they could pull it free. When they finally took it off, Abbie and Ichabod both took a deep breath. Underneath the recent lashing were other scars and cuts, some old, some new, and some barely healed. Abbie glanced over at Ichabod. His face was white and set—he looked both furious and ill at the same time, and without a word he suddenly turned and left the room.

Abbie, checking the first aid for wound care on her phone, gently sponged the cuts clean with water. Jeremy winced and sucked in air a few times.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she said, patting the cuts as softly as possible. "I know this hurts." Jeremy didn't answer, only hugging his doll a little tighter.

Abbie had begun to apply antibiotic ointment when Ichabod came back in the bathroom. "I don't think they're as bad as they look," she offered. "The cuts are pretty clean, and not deep enough to need stitches."

He didn't answer, only taking the tube of ointment silently from her hands and applying it himself, as gently as if Jeremy were a wounded butterfly. Abbie got out the gauze and medical tape, and soon they had the cuts all covered.

It was starting to get dark outside. "I think it's time for dinner," Abbie commented. "I'll cook; you—explain."

"I agree." Ichabod helped Jeremy out of the tub. "You're shivering," he said. "Come out to the living room."

He dressed Jeremy in one of his own t-shirts, which nearly swallowed the boy, and sat down on the couch with him as Abbie pulled together a skillet casserole. She couldn't help eavesdropping as Ichabod cleared his throat and started what was sure to be a long and involved explanation.

"What did they tell you about me, Jeremy?"

Jeremy looked up at him. "They said you were a war hero. You died in battle before I was born."

"I almost died. But I was saved."

"You're like me," Jeremy said unexpectedly.

"What?"

"You can—do things." He gestured at the room. "Magic."

The light dawned. "I didn't bring you here by my own power," Ichabod explained. "You inherited your power from your mother."

Jeremy looked down at his hands. "They told me my mother was a witch."

Ichabod held him tighter. "Your mother was a good woman. She was kind and brave, and she loved you very much. As do I." After a moment, he continued, "Your mother saved me. She put me into a deep sleep, and I slept for more than two hundred years." Jeremy looked up again, his expression excited. "When I woke up, everything was changed. The world was different. …And that's where we are now, Jeremy. We are in the future."

"What year?" 

"2016." Jeremy stared at him. "Are you—are you still glad you came with us?"

Jeremy gulped and wrapped his arms around Ichabod. "Yes."

The kid seemed surprisingly—unsurprised by everything, Abbie reflected as she and Ichabod set the table—three places, this time. _But hey, if I were able to start fires with my mind,_ she thought, _I guess time travel wouldn't seem like that crazy an idea to me, either._

Jeremy was very quiet all through dinner. Abbie found herself wondering if it was the shock of everything that had happened to him, or if he were just naturally quiet. If so, he certainly hadn't taken after his father. He had Ichabod's beautiful blue eyes, though. Abbie smiled to herself.

After dinner, Ichabod read to them from _Gulliver's Travels_ , Jeremy curled up beside him on the couch. Partway through the Liliputians his eyelids began to droop.

"Bedtime, my little man," Ichabod said softly, picking him up. Jeremy put his arms around his father's neck and nuzzled his face into Ichabod's throat. Tears pricked at Abbie's eyes as she watched Ichabod smile tenderly at his son and carry him into the bedroom.

000

Ichabod was usually an early riser, so Abbie was surprised the next morning when she came into the living room and he wasn't there. She tiptoed over his bedroom door and silently pushed it open.

Ichabod was still asleep, his arms around Jeremy, who slept with his head on his father's shoulder. Abbie smiled and shut the door as silently as she had opened it.


	15. Chapter 15

"Did you lock them in one of the cells?"

Abbie looked up from her work and laughed. "No, they're in the conference room, drawing."

Jenny sat down in the chair Ichabod usually used and put her bag on the floor. "Are they getting along?"

"As far as I could tell," Abbie answered, leaning back in her chair. "Jeremy seems to like playing with Macey more than the kids on our street."

"Maybe it's because Macey knows the truth about him."

"Maybe."

"So have you and Crane decided what you're going to do about school?"

"Ichabod wants to homeschool him, at least for awhile—get him caught up with this century so he doesn't make any big gaffes when he goes into public more."

Jenny raised one sardonic eyebrow. "And we think Ichabod is the best choice to teach Jeremy about the twenty-first century?"

Abbie grinned. "I know. But he's home during the day and I'm not. Besides, he knows what Jeremy would be familiar with and what he wouldn't, he'd know how to explain everything to him—and besides, he's learned how to blend in in this time. Okay, blend in a _little_ ," she amended when Jenny's eyebrow showed signs of climbing again. "It's the best solution at the moment. We already had to concoct a backstory for Jeremy to tell the other kids if anybody starts asking."

"Custody problems?"

"Something like that."

"So how's he doing, anyway?"

"Jeremy or Ichabod?"

"Both."

Abbie sighed. "Jeremy is… infallibly polite. But he's so quiet. And maybe that's just how he is; I don't know. But he seems… like, cold or something. He was so affectionate the first day—snuggling up with Ichabod like a kitten. Now, when Ichabod goes to hug him—he doesn't pull back, but he doesn't really reciprocate, either. I don't know what's going on. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop or something. And Ichabod and I are starting to feel the way, too. Something's gotta give soon."

"Jenny!"

Officers parted for Macey like the Red Sea. "Hey, Pepper-Spray!" Jenny said, getting up and giving her step-daughter a hug. "How's it going?"

"Great—Zach asked me out!"

"Oh my God, she's dating," Abbie groaned comically. "Jenny, do I have any gray hairs?"

Jenny grinned. "Hey, Jeremy! How are you?"

"Fine, thank you."

"Time to get going, Mace. Grab your stuff."

"We have to leave in a few minutes too, Jeremy," Abbie told him. "Why don't you go pack up your markers?"

Jeremy nodded silently, leaving his drawing pad on the desk. Jenny picked it up and leafed through it. "Looks like he inherited his father's artistic skills," she said. She paused at one of the pictures and frowned.

"What?"

Jenny held the pad down so Abbie could see it. It was a drawing of a little boy in a crib, blue tears on his cheeks. All around him were flames, and in the background, a woman and man, dressed in 18th century clothing, their faces colored in with brown marker, their mouths opened wide in screams. Abbie and Jenny exchanged worried looks.

000

"I don't know; maybe we should take him to a counselor," Abbie said. She and Ichabod were standing in her room with the door shut while Jeremy played in his and Ichabod's bedroom. 

"Counselors are paid to find out the truth," Ichabod argued. "What if she does?"

"Well, there's doctor-patient confidentiality—she couldn't tell anybody."

"There are also madhouses. If Jeremy tells her he's from the eighteenth century, she'll send him to one."

Abbie rubbed her temples. "I'm just—really worried about him."

Ichabod put his arms around her. "I know. So am I." He rested his chin on her head. "Thank you," he added.

"What for?"

"For welcoming Jeremy into our lives. I know we're supposed to be dating, and I know that having him here has changed things."

"For the better," she answered quickly, giving him a kiss. "I'm glad you have him back, Ichabod."

There was a crash from the living room. They rushed out to find Jeremy sitting on the floor next to an overturned kitchen chair, a soapstone giraffe sculpture which Abbie kept on a high knick-knack shelf lying on the floor with its delicate neck broken.

Jeremy looked up at them with an expression not un-akin to terror. "I—I’m sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean to—I—"

"Jeremy, what were you doing?" Ichabod asked, a slight edge of annoyance in his voice.

"I didn't—I'm sorry—"

The smoke alarm suddenly went off, and all three of them jumped. Before their eyes, flames sprang up from a corner of the carpet. "I'm sorry!" Jeremy screamed, and the sound of crackling intensified as fire broke out around the coffee table. Abbie grabbed a throw blanket off of the couch and sprang to put them out.

"Jeremy—" Ichabod said, stepping forward.

"Please don't beat me!" Jeremy wailed. "I'm sorry!"

"Jeremy!"

The child shrank back as Ichabod knelt on the floor next to him and put his arms around him. After a moment of shock, Jeremy collapsed into sobs, clinging to his father. Abbie put out the rest of the fire and turned off the smoke detector. The only sound was Jeremy crying, sobbing as if his heart would break. Abbie, at a loss, sat down on the couch and waited.

Eventually Jeremy's breathing evened out a little. "Are you—going to beat me?"

"Never," Ichabod answered, a choke in his voice.

"Are you going to send me back?"

"Jeremy." Ichabod sat back and wiped the tears from his son's cheeks. "I promised you would never have to go back." Jeremy sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "Is that what you've been afraid of?"

Jeremy nodded miserably. Ichabod pulled him close and Jeremy sank, exhausted, into his arms. "I promise, you will never, ever have to go back to that place."

"What are you going to do about the fire?" Jeremy asked in a small voice.

"Abbie has already put it out," Ichabod answered.

"No, I mean—to me."

Ichabod swallowed hard. "You didn't do it on purpose," he answered. "You can't be punished for something you couldn't help."

"Reverend Allen said he had to chastise the Devil in me."

"Reverend Allen was wrong," Ichabod answered firmly. "Your abilities are not caused by the Devil. You were born with them—they're a gift. You just have to learn to control them, that's all."

"I don't know if I can."

"Well, Abbie and I are going to help you."

"What about the carving? Are you going to punish me for that?"

"Do you know what you did wrong?"

"I wanted to look at it—so I waited until you were gone and I got a chair from the kitchen to take it down," Jeremy answered shame-facedly.

"What should you have done instead?"

"I could have asked you if I could see it."

"Exactly. See? I think you learned your lesson—no punishment needed."

Jeremy looked up at Abbie. "I'm sorry about the carving," he said.

"That's alright, Jeremy. I’m just glad you didn't hurt yourself when you fell."

Jeremy subsided into his father's arms again, completely wrung out.

000

Abbie was folding laundry in her room when Ichabod put Jeremy to bed that evening. She came back out into the living room to find Ichabod sitting on the couch, his face in his hands. He looked utterly defeated.

"Ichabod?" she said, sitting down beside him and putting her hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"My own son is afraid of me," he groaned.

"He's more afraid of losing you."

Ichabod glanced up at her, his expression wearied and pained. "I don't know if I can do this, Abbie. I don't know if I can help him."

She wrapped her arms around him and he rested his cheek on her head. "You love him. That's what he needs. He needs to feel secure and cared for—and you're proving to him every day that you won't leave him. We just need to hang in there. Dogged perseverance—isn't that one of the things the Continental Army was known for?"

Ichabod chuckled. "I suppose so."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! Start of the semester and all that.  
> The season finale makes this fic AU in more ways than one, so I will confirm here that in this fic, I am considering Henry Parrish and Jeremy to be two different people.

"I'm sorry; I know it's short notice… but we really need you to watch him for awhile." Abbie paused. "I don't know. A few hours, a day or two… I know. We packed an overnight bag for him. …That would be fine. Thanks so much, Henry. We'll be there in ten minutes."

"He agreed?" Ichabod asked as Abbie hung up.

"With reservations," she amended.

"Of course."

Ichabod glanced up in the rearview mirror and caught sight of Jeremy looking at him from the back seat. The boy's eyes immediately darted away, but Ichabod had already seen the expression of confusion and hurt in them.

"Mr. Parrish is a very good friend of ours, Jeremy," Ichabod said by way of explanation, "but he's not very comfortable around people. He's looking forward to meeting you—but you must promise not to touch him. Alright?"

Jeremy nodded with a small smile, and Ichabod took it as confirmation that he understood that Henry's reluctance to let him stay for awhile wasn't personal. Ichabod breathed a sigh of relief, and Abbie reached over and touched his hand.

Normally, under Moloch-created emergencies, they would be taking Jeremy to Frank and Jenny. But both of them were on the scene already, and Macey, who would have been happy to stay with him, was in the city with her mom this weekend. Despite having had Jeremy with them for a couple of months, he and Henry hadn't met yet—mostly from a combination of scheduling issues and Henry's borderline agoraphobia. But Abbie and Ichabod were needed in town—and that meant that they needed Henry.

000

Abbie knocked on Henry's door and glanced down at Jeremy. He was clutching his overnight bag a little nervously, and staring at the door like it was threatening to bite him.

Footsteps were heard inside, and Henry opened the door. "Come in, come in," he said, more invitingly than Abbie had expected after her conversation with him on the phone. "So this is Jeremy?"

"How do you do, Sir?" Jeremy answered politely.

Henry smiled. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Thanks so much, Henry—we really appreciate this," Abbie said.

"Not at all, not at all."

Ichabod knelt down and put his hands on Jeremy's shoulders. "Be good for Mr. Parrish, alright?" Jeremy nodded, and Ichabod pulled him into a hug. "I love you."

"I love you too," he answered quietly. Abbie looked on with a pained smile. Jeremy always returned his father's signs of affection, but he never initiated them himself.

In another minute, Jeremy and Henry were alone. "Are you hungry?" Henry asked in the awkward silence that followed. "Would you like a snack?"

"No, thank you," Jeremy answered politely.

Henry thought for a moment. "I have a spare room, if you would like to set your things up there." Jeremy nodded and followed him to the back bedroom of the apartment. Henry could feel the sorrow and fear emanating from the boy: it was almost physically painful. He left him to himself and went to make himself a calming cup of tea.

000

After half an hour of quiet from the back bedroom, Henry decided it was time to check on his young charge. He took a deep breath and walked back the hall, pushing the half-closed door open quietly.

Jeremy lay on the floor on his stomach, drawing on a pad of paper. He didn't look up as Henry walked over and looked down at the drawing. A tall man with long brown hair was holding a boy with red lines across his back. Holding onto the man's arm was a woman with brown skin—Henry recognized Abbie's oxblood leather jacket—holding a strange, pointy-headed doll. Nearby stood a man in a white, curled wig and a minister's dress, pointing at them and shouting. Light seemed to be shining from the three figures in the center.

Henry uncomfortably bent his stiff joints and sat down on the floor beside him. "Is that you?" he asked, pointing to the boy. Jeremy nodded. "Who's that?"

"Reverend Allen."

"What is he doing?"

"Denouncing me as a devil," Jeremy answered simply.

Henry stared at him. It wasn't often he heard a child Jeremy's age use that kind of language—learned from the "Reverend" Allen himself, no doubt. Henry felt he couldn't just let this moment go past without saying something—but this was shaky ground.

"Why would he do that?" he asked carefully.

"Because I make bad things happen."

"What kind of bad things?"

Jeremy still didn't look up. "When I'm scared I start fires. Sometimes things break, like the chapel windows. Or people get hurt."

There was a long pause. "Sometimes people get hurt when I touch them," Henry answered. Jeremy looked up at him, surprised. "I am a sin-eater," he explained. "I can sense evil in others—and when I touch them, they can feel the ugliness of all their sins." Jeremy paled. "The other children I grew up with were afraid of me. Whenever I touched them, they would cry and scream. I grew afraid of myself—I thought there was something wrong with me, that I was cursed. But my father told me that what I had was a gift. He said I could use it for good—to help people. He was right. I can bring people relief, make them recognize their own goodness, tell them things about themselves that they need to hear." He looked him in the eye. "Jeremy, you are not evil. You have been hurt by others, but you have a good heart. Your abilities are a gift. When you learn more about them, you will know how to use them to help others."

Jeremy swallowed hard and blinked back tears. He opened his mouth and shut it again, gathering himself in a way that reminded Henry of Ichabod. "How do I learn?" he asked at last, his eyes shining.

"Practice," Henry said with a smile, and climbed to his feet. "Come on!"

000

"Only 9:30—at least we'll all get to bed at a decent hour tonight," Abbie said tiredly as she and Ichabod approached Henry's door. "We must be getting better at this fighting demons thing: it seems to be going faster than it used to."

"Thankfully," Ichabod smiled back, knocking at the apartment door. There was no answer, and no sound of approaching footsteps inside. Ichabod and Abbie exchanged nervous glances: even if Henry had sent Jeremy to bed already, he should still have been up. Ichabod knocked again, louder this time. 

"It's open!" Henry called, and Ichabod opened the door cautiously. 

There was no one in the sitting room. "Henry? Jeremy?" Abbie called.

"Back here!" Henry called.

They followed his voice back to the bathroom. A package of toilet paper and a pile of towels sat outside the door, and when they looked around the door, they found Jeremy kneeling next to the tub and Henry sitting in a kitchen chair beside him.

"Papa!" Jeremy leapt to his feet and threw his arms around his father's waist, smiling brightly.

Abbie saw tears spring to Ichabod's eyes. "Hello, little man," he said with a little choke in his voice. "What's going on here?"

There was a large kitchen pot in the bottom of the bathtub, with a piece of paper inside. "Watch!" Jeremy said, kneeling next to the tub again. He leaned over its edge and stared hard at the paper. Abbie and Ichabod looked quizzically at Henry, who merely smiled and indicated the pot. They looked back, and waited in breathless silence. Several seconds passed. Ichabod opened his mouth to ask what they were watching for when the slip of paper suddenly darkened, curled, and ignited in a little burst of flame. Jeremy looked up at them brightly as their jaws dropped.

"Y—did YOU do that?" Abbie asked, and Jeremy nodded proudly. 

Ichabod gave a laugh of surprise and dropped to one knee beside him, hugging Jeremy to his side. "That's wonderful, Jeremy!"

"Mr. Parrish taught me."

Ichabod smiled up at Henry, his face shining almost as brightly as his son's. "Thank you, Henry."

"It was my pleasure. He is a very gifted and hard-working young man. I hope you'll bring him to me again—I've enjoyed teaching him."

"We certainly will," Ichabod said, exchanging smiles with Abbie. "But for now, I think it's time we _all_ headed to bed. Gather your things, little man."

As Jeremy gathered up his markers, the three adults compared schedules. "Jeremy, how would you like to come to me for lessons twice a week?" Henry asked as he reappeared with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

Jeremy's eyes lit up, and he looked at Ichabod and Abbie for confirmation. Their smiles assured him the offer was made in earnest. "Yes, please!" he answered. 

"Then I shall see you Tuesday afternoon," Henry concluded. "Good night Ichabod, Abbie, Jeremy."

"Good night, Mr. Parrish!" Jeremy answered.

He talked animatedly the whole way home.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long break! I do have an ending planned for this, and it's several chapters away, so stay tuned!

"Alright, Kiddo—ready to go?"

"Yes," Jeremy answered, and went to get his coat. He had seemed much more cheerful since he had begun his lessons with Henry—Abbie and Ichabod were both relieved. He still had quiet days, and some of his reactions to things were still a little extreme, but for the most part he seemed to be doing better. 

Ichabod was researching at the Batcave—as Abbie had begun to refer to the archives—so Jeremy was in her care today. And she had errands to run.

They picked up a few items at the grocery store, and a new winter coat for Jeremy. That last item involved going to the Westchester Mall. They found him one he liked, and he thanked her politely when she bought it for him. She smiled down at him. "Let's get some lunch," she suggested.

They ordered at a counter, and Abbie suggested that they sit in one of the open dining areas nearby. After they had taken the edge off their hunger, Abbie gave Jeremy a mischievous smile. "When Jenny and I were kids," she said, "we used to play this game, called Secret Identities." Jeremy looked up at her, interested. "We used to watch people passing by, and try to figure out what their secret identities were."

"Like spies?" Jeremy asked. He had played spy games with some of the kids down the street.

"Exactly." She gestured subtly to a heavyset man nearby who was standing by the cash register of a shoe store looking bored while his wife argued with a clerk. "That guy over there—he looks entirely too normal. _I_ think he's a secret agent." She dropped her voice conspiratorially. "He works for the Russians. His wife doesn't know."

"She's angry," Jeremy observed.

"Probably because her husband's always away on 'business trips'." Abbie put down her fries and did air quotes. "Actually, he's going to secret spy meetings."

"The Russians are in talks with the Nigerians," Jeremy suddenly jumped in, and Abbie started giggling. He was definitely a smart kid. "But the Nigerians want him to go on a top secret mission to… Costa Rica! He's thinking about not telling his wife he's going on the business trip until he's halfway there."

"What do you think his cover job is?" Abbie prompted him.

"Umm…" Jeremy looked stumped.

"It must be a desk job—a job in the field wouldn't let him get this heavy."

"It's a disguise," Jeremy whispered. "It's actually a pillow stuck up his shirt."

Abbie almost choked on her Coke. Jeremy looked at her streaming eyes and started laughing.

By the time they had finished their meal and gone back for ice cream, Jeremy had identified a pirate queen, a ninja, and an evil fairy, and the two of them had laughed so hard that people were starting to give them funny looks.

"Abbie," Jeremy said as they left the mall, "can we do this again next week?"

Abbie smiled. "Sure, Jeremy. I'd like that."

Ichabod was home when they got back. "You two were gone a long time! Did you get a coat?"

"Yes," Jeremy said and showed it off to him. "Can I go play with Tyler and Connor?"

"Yes, go ahead," Ichabod said, and Jeremy gave him a hug—then paused, gave Abbie a big hug too, and ran out the door.


	18. Chapter 18

"Brrr!" Abbie exclaimed, pulling down her hood and shaking the snow off her boots. "What a storm!"

"How fortunate we have this cabin," Ichabod observed, hanging up his own coat and knit hat on the rack by the door. They had been out of town chasing down a kelpie, and the roads had gotten so bad on their way back that they had been forced to stop at the cabin instead of continuing on to Sleepy Hollow.

Abbie hung up her coat as well and began building a fire in the cold fireplace. "The faster we get this place warmed up, the happier I'll be," she said.

Ichabod moved to help her. After a minute she patted her pocket. "Shit—I left my phone in the car." She put back on her boots and grabbed her keys, not bothering with her coat. "I'll be right back!"

Ichabod nodded and busied himself kindling the fire. When he had it lit, his own phone rang. It was Jenny's number.

"Hello," he answered.

"Papa! Are you coming home tonight?" Jeremy asked.

"No, I'm sorry, little man—the roads are terrible. Abbie and I are going to stay at the cabin overnight. But we'll be back to pick you up tomorrow morning, alright?"

"Alright. Love you."

Ichabod smiled. "I love you, too." He hung up the phone and smiled into the flames for a moment. He was so thankful that Jeremy seemed to finally be adjusting. He had even begun asking his father if he could go to the local public school the next year. Ichabod shook himself and looked up to speak to Abbie—only to discover that she hadn't come in yet. He frowned. She had only gone outside to fetch her phone, hadn't she?

He opened the door and looked out. The porch light illuminated the car, which had quickly been covered in falling snow. "Abbie?" He called, and waited. There was no answer. "ABBIE!" he shouted louder, beginning to feel fear creeping up his spine. The snow, still coming down thickly, seemed to muffle his voice, as if all the world had been wrapped in cotton.

His heart pounding, Ichabod turned back into the cabin and pulled on his hat and coat, laced up his snowboots, and put on his gloves. Grabbing a flashlight and stuffing his phone into his pocket, he dashed back out into the snow.

An examination of the ground around the car told him nothing: the snow was falling too heavily for her prints to still be visible. He shone the flashlight around at the surrounding trees. One of them, a hemlock, had significantly less snow on its lower branches than the surrounding trees. Something had recently brushed them and knocked the snow off.

Ichabod hurried into the woods past the hemlock, scanning the area for other signs of disturbance. The wind whistled around him and blew snow in his face, nearly blinding him. The trail was difficult to find, but at least the snow was sticky: it wasn't drifting much once it was on the ground, so Ichabod was able to see the faint signs of someone's passage. He prayed it was Abbie's.

The trail led him deep into the woods, down a steep embankment—he had to try hard to keep his feet under him in the snow. "ABBIE! ABBIE?" he shouted. No response. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. She had been out in this weather, without a coat, for almost an hour, and it was well below freezing. From the few tracks he had found he thought she was running—and his pace was far slower as he searched for her trail. He needed to find her quickly.

Finally, as he came around a large rock he saw her, huddled up on the ground with her hands stuffed in her armpits. Snow had already gathered thickly on her uncovered head and across her shoulders and lap.

"Abbie!" He ran over to her and his foot slipped down into the mud. They were on the very edge of the lake—he hadn't realized it in the blowing snow. He pulled his foot out of the mud and dropped to his knees beside her. "Abbie, can you hear me?"

"Mm…" Her dark eyelashes fluttered. "Ichabod?" she murmured.

He pulled off his glove and touched her cheek: it felt cool. "We have to get you back to the cabin," he said, brushing the snow off of her hair and pulling his knit hat down over her head. With difficulty he managed to force her hands into his gloves and his coat over her arms. He tried to pick her up, but she was dead weight: too difficult to lift in a prone position. Silently apologizing for the indignity, he draped her over his shoulder, gripped her legs behind the knee, and stood up under her weight, heading off in the direction of the cabin.

His prodigious memory stood him in good stead: it was not as necessary to search out the trail the second time, and soon he was climbing the stairs to the porch, Abbie's dangling arms hitting him in the back of the legs.

Once inside, he laid her down on the couch and stoked the fire, then began pulling off her wet things. There was no way an ambulance was going to make it up those roads in this weather. Besides, he had survived a winter in Valley Forge: he knew what to do for extreme cold.

Abbie had left some clothes stashed at the cabin after the last time they had been forced to spend a few days there. Ichabod quickly fetched a pair of her sweatpants, some socks, a tshirt and a hoody from the dresser in the bedroom. He removed her wet clothing and put the dry clothes on her. There were, thankfully, no signs of frostbite. Finally, he pulled some blankets out of the linen cupboard and sat down on the couch with her, putting her legs across his lap and her head on his shoulder and covered them both with the blankets. "Are you still with me, love?" he murmured.

"Mm. Mm-hm."

He began to rub her feet, trying to get some warmth back into her extremities. She suddenly began to shiver—a good sign—and nuzzled closer to him, shaking. He leaned his head on her damp hair, which had long since begun to curl. "Did you catch it?" she murmured.

"Catch what, Flittermouse?"

"The thing."

Ichabod smiled in spite of himself. So specific. "No, I didn't catch it."

"Mm."

At long last her shivering ceased. She seemed considerably warmer—and it was late. "Time for bed, _mon chaton_ ," he said, and lifted her up. This time she clung to his neck as he carried her into the bedroom and deposited her in the bed. "Sleep well, love," he said quietly as he pulled the blankets up to her chin.

She reached her hand out and laid it on his wrist. "Marry me," she murmured.

He froze. "What was that?" he managed.

"Marry me, Ichabod," she said, tucking her face into the pillow.

He reached up to run his hand over the emerging curls at her temple. …The bedroom was colder than the sitting room, with no fire, he told himself. She could probably use some body heat… He smiled at his own justifications and climbed into the bed, curling himself protectively around her body. He breathed in the scent of her hair and wrapped his arm about her waist. "Good night, Abbie," he whispered.

000

When he awoke the next morning, the room was full of a soft white light. He blinked and gazed around, somewhat dazed, and realized he had forgotten to pull the curtains the night before.

He rolled over and found Abbie looking at him with an amused smile and a glint in her eyes. "Ichabod Crane, in bed with me. To what do I owe _this_ unheard-of honor?"

"Nearly freezing to death," he answered, mirroring her smile. "How do you feel?"

"Better." She pillowed her cheek on her hand and scootched down cozily into the bed. 

"What were you doing out in the snow like that, anyway?" he asked, reaching out and pushing a strand of hair out of her face.

She frowned. "I thought I saw something when I went out to the car," she said slowly—"this weird… light. Like a figure with a lantern. So I followed it into the woods. Every time I thought I nearly caught it, it would get farther away—and when I finally realized how stupid I was being, chasing after this thing in the dark, I turned around and realized that I had no idea where I was. I told you," she said with a sheepish smile: "all the trees look alike to me."

"You shouldn't have run off on your own like that," he remonstrated gently.

She rubbed her forehead. "I know. I don't know why I did it," she said, puzzled. 

"A pixy-light," he said slowly. "My mother used to tell me stories about travelers who followed strange lights at night—it would disappear just as they reached a dangerous place, like a cliff or the bank of a river. You were by the lake when I found you. …We might have to search the archives for how to exorcize pixies."

Abbie groaned and buried her face in the pillow. "Can't we just stay in bed awhile longer?" she asked, her voice muffled.

He chuckled. After a minute she opened one eye and looked at him suspiciously. "What are you still doing in bed with me?" she asked.

"Well, there is nothing untoward in a betrothed couple spending a little time getting to know one another," he said lightly, trying to hide a mischievous smile. "In my time, they called it bundling. There would have been a sturdy board here, though," he added, tracing a line down the mattress between them.

"Betrothed?" He almost laughed out loud at the arrested look on her face.

"Yes—you asked me to marry you last night. Or don't you remember?"

"I _what?!_ "

He couldn't keep a straight face anymore, and began laughing. "Oh yes," he managed. "Don't worry; I won't hold you to it. I know you were—"

She sprang at him and pressed her lips to his. After a moment of surprise he returned the kiss, his arm insensibly winding around her waist and crushing her to him. After a long minute he broke away. "Does this mean—" he began breathlessly.

She nodded, stroking his cheek with one hand, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Marry me, Ichabod Crane," she said with a shaky laugh.

He pulled her back to him, glad to be in the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth: the bundling board would have had to go.


	19. Chapter 19

Ichabod nervously adjusted his gold sleeve buttons.

"You need a hand with that?" Frank asked, glancing at him in the mirror, where he was straightening his own bowtie.

"No, thank you," Ichabod answered, not looking up. "These were a common _accoutrement_ in my century, as well." He smiled a little. "Although we had valets to help us on with our clothes." He glanced up at Frank and smiled at him in the mirror.

Frank shook his head. "I don't know how you're so… awake," he groaned, finishing with his tie and rubbing his eyes. "You drank more than me last night."

"You forget that I was accustomed to drinking ale, small beer, or wine at every meal," Ichabod answered. "Not to mention in between meals."

Frank shook his head and then winced. "It must take a lot to make you drunk."

"A fair amount." Certainly not as much as he had imbibed the night before at the "bachelor's party" Frank had thrown for him. 

It had been held in the back room of a bar near the station, and most of the guests were Abbie's colleagues. They had been most gracious and friendly, though several of them had complained that Frank had not allowed them to hire a stripper—a courtesy for which Ichabod had thanked him later.

The most memorable part of the evening had come when two veteran officers, who had rather an avuncular relationship with Abbie, had taken Crane aside. One of them, Earl, had started off by telling Ichabod how good they thought he was for Lieutenant Mills.

"But we want you to know," Sam had added slowly, leaning in very closely: "if you ever hurt her, we will kill you and make it look like an accident." His expression was perfectly solemn.

"We are cops; we know how to destroy evidence," Earl had added calmly.

"I assure you, gentlemen," Ichabod said, wide-eyed, "that will not be necessary."

"See that it isn't," Sam had finished.

"Papa?" Jeremy said, breaking into Ichabod's reverie. "Can you tie my tie?"

"Of course. Come here." Ichabod knelt down and began to arrange the strangely-shaped neckcloth with deft movements. He had watched a tutorial on how to tie a bowtie on youtube, and had practiced in secret once he and Frank had rented their tuxedos.

He had not yet seen Abbie's dress. He had asked to see it when she and Jenny had brought it home in great secrecy and hung it up in her bedroom, and the Mills sisters had both been appalled.

"You can't see the dress before the wedding," Abbie exclaimed; "it's bad luck!"

Ichabod bridled. "For heaven's sake, why?"

She started laughing. " _I_ don't know— _you're_ supposed to be the history expert!"

"Only in history before 1781!" he retorted with a smile. "In my time, a woman wore her best dress to her wedding—the groom might have seen it many times before!"

"Well, that's not how it works now. It's supposed to be a surprise," Abbie said with finality.

"There," Ichabod said, straightening his handiwork. You look quite dashing," he added with a smile.

Jeremy smiled back. "I'm glad I don't have to wear ruffles," he confided.

Frank laughed. "That's a very modern kid you're raising there, Crane."

"Don't I know it," Ichabod said in a voice of longsuffering, but gave Jeremy a wink. 

He and Abbie had agreed that he should tell Jeremy alone that they were getting married. Ichabod had done it one evening when Abbie was working late.

"Did you have fun with Abbie at the mall on Saturday?" he asked, setting aside his book. Jeremy looked up from his drawing.

"Yep," he said, holding up the paper for Ichabod to see. It was clearly himself and Abbie at a table, surrounded by ninjas, pirates, and strange green men with large eyes—Ichabod hadn't quite learned all the cultural references Jeremy and his friends used in their games.

"You seem to like Abbie," Ichabod ventured, unsure how to broach the subject.

"Yeah," Jeremy answered. Ichabod had yet to accustom himself to hearing his son speaking in 21st century language: he would have answered his own father with a formal "Yes, Sir". But Abbie used such expressions all the time—they were common and expected here. Besides, he hoped it was conducive to a closer relationship with Jeremy than he himself had had with his father. And Jeremy continued to call him "Papa" rather than the more modern "Dad"—which Ichabod enjoyed immensely.

He was just considering what to say next, when Jeremy beat him to it: "Are you going to marry her?"

"Er—yes," Ichabod answered. "How did you know?"

Jeremy shrugged. "I heard Abbie talking to Miss Jenny about rings."

Ichabod couldn't hide a smile. Trust his clever son to pick up on something like that.

"I'm glad you're getting married," Jeremy had added before Ichabod could ask the question. "You smile more when she's around. And she does, too."

Ichabod felt tears prick his eyes. The sound of the front door opening made him jump. "Good evening, boys," Abbie said, coming into the room and shedding her coat. "You look cozy."

"You're going to be my stepmother?" Jeremy asked.

Abbie blinked. "Yes." She looked slightly stunned by the suddenness of the question.

"What should I call you?"

"Anything you like." She suddenly grinned. "Except late for dinner." Jeremy laughed. "Speaking of which, I'm starving! Is there any of that mac and cheese left?"

A knock at the door of the side room brought Ichabod suddenly back to earth.

"Showtime, guys," one of the ushers said.

Ichabod swallowed and nervously checked his bowtie and his sleeve buttons one more time. He felt Jeremy pat him on the arm. "You'll be fine," Jeremy said in a stage whisper, with something that looked astoundingly like one of Abbie's teasing smiles. 

Ichabod gave a startled laugh. "Thank you. Shall we?"

The three of them filed in to the front of the sanctuary. It was a small wedding: Abbie had a lot of friendly acquaintances around town, but few close friends and no family besides Jenny. The congregation mostly consisted of co-workers, former teachers, and members of the church. Abbie and Ichabod had occasionally attended this Episcopalian church, once the home of Rev. Knapp, and when Ichabod had voiced a desire for a church wedding, of the kind that he was familiar with, Abbie had quickly agreed that they should have it here.

Ichabod felt awkward, standing there in silence with his hands clasped in front of him. At least when he had been married before, he had had his hat under one arm, and a sword at his side. He stood straight and tried not to fidget.

The music began, and Macey entered. Ichabod glanced over at Frank, who was beaming at his daughter. She looked stunning in her lavender gown. She smiled back at her father, and gave Jeremy a special grin before she took her place on the other side of the sanctuary. Jenny came in second, also lovely in lavender and gray—although she had informed Abbie that she could forget gowns: she was coming in pants. Abbie had compromised by finding a dressy slacks combination for her. Jenny gave Ichabod a mischievous smile, one eyebrow raised. He wasn't quite sure what that meant—until he looked up and saw Abbie coming in the door. For a moment he forgot how to breathe.

Her gown was an ivory, eighteenth-century _robe à la française_ , trimmed with lace, the bodice shimmering with rhinestones. It had everything, even panniers and a short train. Her hair was piled on top of her head and set with pearls. But most beautiful of all, her black eyes shone with happiness and excitement. The only way to describe her was _radiant_.

Abbie had wanted Henry to give her away, but he had not felt comfortable in such a large gathering of people. So she processed to the front alone, and took the hand Ichabod held out to her. Her fingers trembled slightly in his, and they smiled at one another a little mistily. As one, they turned to face the minister.

"Dearly beloved," Rev. Taylor began, "we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony."

They had agreed to keep the ceremony simple, neither one of them much caring for pomp, and had used the 18th century Book of Common Prayer for the form. They had made a few changes, and the very first had been the removal of the bride's pledge to obey her husband. Ichabod had suggested that before Abbie had even thought that far ahead. Their relationship was a partnership, he said firmly, and always had been.

Soon Ichabod found Frank handing him Abbie's wedding ring. "With this Ring I thee wed," he said solemnly, "with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." He slid the ring onto her finger. Abbie looked up at him, her eyes sparkling.

In what seemed like a moment, the minister was concluding, "Forasmuch as Ichabod and Grace have consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Ichabod held his breath: now came one of the additions Abbie had insisted on. "You may kiss the bride."

Ichabod had never kissed anyone before a large group of people before, and he felt himself blush. But the moment Abbie's lips met his, he forgot everything else—even Jenny's piercing wolf whistle.

000

The reception afterward was a small but merry affair. Even Frank overcame the remains of his hangover and danced with his wife, his sister-in-law, and his daughter. Ichabod got a thrill out of being able to introduce Jenny and Frank to some of the church members as "my sister and brother-in-law," and danced with Macey (Jenny refused: "Sorry, but I don't dance. Frank is the only one I bend that rule for!"). But the highlight of the evening was Abbie and Ichabod's first dance. Ichabod had secretly learned some simple waltz steps from a neighbor, and was able to twirl Abbie around the room very gracefully.

Their honeymoon, for reasons both financial and apocalyptic, was going to take place at Stone Harbor, New Jersey. Abbie had stipulated no camping, and Ichabod had agreed that as long as she didn't expect him to don swim trunks and go sunbathing, he was amenable to a trip to the beach. (Abbie had secretly packed swim trunks for him anyway, and hoped to lure him into the water with a really fantastic bikini she had purchased especially for the purpose.)

When they left the community center (Ichabod rather startled at having been suddenly assaulted with handfuls of rice) and headed for Abbie's car, Ichabod began laughing: Earl and Sam had written "Just Married!" on the back window, and had tied a boot to the undercarriage.

"Now _that_ is a tradition I recognize!" he exclaimed.

Jenny gave Abbie a hug and Ichabod a peck on the cheek. " _Don't_ be good," she said mischievously. Ichabod flushed, but grinned like a schoolboy. He had no doubt that if they had remained at home on their wedding night, Jenny would have performed a charivari, even if she had to do it all by herself.

Abbie knelt down to hug Jeremy goodbye. "I love you, Jeremy," she murmured. Jeremy didn't answer, but hugged her tightly.

Waving a final goodbye to their well-wishers, Ichabod and Abbie climbed into the car.

"Man, my hair's still sticky from all that hairspray," Abbie complained as they got onto the highway. "Ew, and there's rice in it. Babe, can you pull out my beach bag? There's a hair pick in it."

Ichabod retrieved the bag from the back seat and began to rummage around the towel, sunglasses, sunscreen…

"Abbie," he said.

"Yeah?"

" _What_ is _this_?"

She glanced over to see him holding up a pair of bright red swim trunks, one eyebrow raised imperiously. She tried to press her lips together, but she couldn't hold back the laugh.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning to write a honeymoon chapter, but I got requests, sooo...

Abbie couldn't help strutting a bit as she and Ichabod made their way down the path to the beach. They looked great, and she knew it. She was wearing a flirty little beach dress over her bikini, and she had coaxed Ichabod into the swim trunks, though he had stipulated that he be allowed to wear a tshirt with them. People were turning and staring at them as they went. Ichabod was used to that. Abbie was lapping it up.

She glanced over at her new husband. His legs shone white in the sun, and she hid a smile. She had had to impress upon him the importance of sunscreen before they left the bed and breakfast, applying it to his back herself. "Don't want my pale white boy to turn back into a redcoat," she'd teased.

They picked a spot not too close to the water. Abbie set out the beach chairs and Ichabod erected the umbrella.

"How is that, _ma petite_?" he asked.

"Fine, but that nickname better not mean what I think it does," she answered, handing him his book from her bag.

" _Mon chou_ ," he corrected himself.

"Bless you." He laughed. "What does that mean, anyway?"

"My cabbage." She gave him an incredulous look, and he grinned, crossing his ankles comfortably in his chair. "You should be glad I didn't call you _ma puce_."

"That just sounds _dirty_ ," Abbie answered, and they both laughed.

Ichabod's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of Abbie's bag. He grinned, then showed it to Abbie. Jenny had sent them a photo of Jeremy and Macey on a ferris wheel, grinning and waving—she had taken them to Coney Island that day as a treat.

Abbie took a selfie with Ichabod and sent it back. She knew Jenny would be as amused at seeing Ichabod posing for a selfie as Jeremy would be excited to know they were thinking of him.

They read peacefully for a time. Ichabod had brought Boccaccio's _Decameron_ with him, and was actually chuckling at it. It was a hefty book, and had been a pain to carry in her bag. Abbie had tried to get Ichabod interested in a Kindle, even offering to get him one for Christmas, but he had said that as there were still books in this century, he would still read them the old-fashioned way.

Abbie had a couple of novels Ichabod had recommended sitting beside her bed at home, but for their vacation she had specifically brought a bunch of romances and thrillers. Something fun and light—both emotionally and physically—for the beach.

The day was getting very warm. "I think I might run down to the water and cool off a bit," Abbie said at last. 

"Mm," Ichabod answered.

"Care to join me?"

"Thank you, no," he answered absently.

Abbie shrugged. "Suit yourself." She stood up from her chair and slowly pulled the beach dress over her head. "Mm, that sun feels good," she said, standing and basking in it for a moment. She sneaked a glance at Ichabod. The book had dropped, and he was staring. She hid a mischievous smile. That was exactly the response she had been trying for when she bought this bikini. It was black with small rhinestone clasps—not quite a _string_ bikini, but almost.

She turned and strolled leisurely down to the water, making sure her hips swung. A couple of young men nearby gaped at her and nudged each other, then suddenly decided _they_ wanted to go for a swim, too.

Ichabod watched her go for a minute, then dropped his gaze to his book. Shutting his mouth with a snap, he clapped the book shut and stood up, pulling off his tshirt. Abbie was joking and laughing with the two young men as the waves rolled in, lapping her knees, her thighs, her hips…

Ichabod strode down to the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to point out that this fic isn't over yet. I've got at least three more chapters to go.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so bad at updating; I was a conference in Virginia last week, and I'm currently working on a completely addictive Sleepy Hollow RP which we're turning into a fic--part 1 will be posted pretty soon. :) [Note: 3 chapters and an epilogue to go on this fic!]

"You did a FANTASTIC job, Jeremy," Abbie gushed. Jeremy beamed. He was dressed in his little league uniform, carrying his bat and glove.

"Thanks, Abbie," he said. He had continued to call Abbie by her first name, even after the marriage.

"A home run!" Ichabod put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Congratulations!"

Jeremy smiled and bit his lower lip, rosy with their praise.

"Now if I could just remember where we parked the car," Abbie said with a laugh. She had come directly from the work, and the parking around the baseball field was skimpy. So many people had shown up for the game that she had parked some distance away and had practically run to get there before the game started. Now it was dark, and she couldn't remember exactly where she had left the car.

They had stayed late to chat with some other parents, and the last of the other vehicles were pulling out. The field was far out on the edge of town, and they could hear the crickets chirping.

"Is that it over there?" Ichabod asked, peering into the shade under a large tree.

The lights over the field suddenly shut off, and the crickets hushed. For a moment, all three of them were blinded by the darkness. Then there was a flash and a bang. Gunfire.

"Over here!" Abbie shouted, dragging Ichabod and Jeremy over to the cover of the park bathrooms. She drew her gun and returned fire. Ichabod, who had acquired a concealed carry permit, drew his own and joined her.

Damn. She and Ichabod had thought they had wiped out the last of that Moloch-worshipping cult. Clearly they had been wrong.

Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and she saw a movement: someone was underneath a tree approaching them from the other side—where they had no cover. He stepped out into the moonlight and aimed—at Jeremy.

"NO!" Abbie threw himself in front of him. The force of the shot as it took her in the back threw both of them to the ground.

Ichabod turned just in time to see the man advancing on them. Crane raised his pistol—

But Jeremy beat him to it. The boy screamed and threw out one hand. The gunman flew through the air, hit the trunk of the tree with a crunch, and fell to the ground.

One of the other gunmen shouted to the third and they took to their heels. Ichabod aimed and struck one in the back; the other escaped into the darkness.

"Mama? Mama!" Jeremy was shouting, tears of panic running down his face. Abbie was unresponsive. Ichabod knelt next to them and pulled off his coat, wadding it up and pressing it to Abbie's wound, which was bleeding profusely.

"Jeremy," he said with a calmness he didn't know he could muster. He pulled out his cell phone. "I need you to call 911. Put it on speakerphone."

Jeremy obeyed, gulping.

000

Jenny saw Ichabod long before he saw her. He was sitting on one of those uncomfortable waiting room couches, his wrapped tightly arm around Jeremy, who was curled up beside him with his arms flung around his father's waist. Both of them were staring into space, just waiting. She swallowed hard.

"Ichabod," she said, approaching a little nearer.

"Jenny." He got to his feet and gave her a hug, not even attempting a smile. Jeremy hugged her tightly.

"Do we know anything yet?"

Ichabod shook his head, his face drawn. "She's still in surgery." Jenny could hear the stress, the fear in his voice. He was being strong for Jeremy.

"Mr. Crane?"

"Doctor. How is she?" he asked quickly.

"She's lost some blood, but she's going to be alright," he answered, and Ichabod's shoulders slumped with relief. Jeremy began to cry silently, and Jenny hugged him to her side. The doctor gave them the rest of the details about her condition. "She's going to be waking up soon, if you'd like to go sit with her."

000

Jenny sat with Jeremy in the plastic chairs in the hall while Ichabod went into the room and took a seat next to Abbie's bed. He took her hand—the one not wired up to a heart monitor and a blood transfusion bag—and kissed it. It was cold to the touch.

In a few minutes Abbie began to stir. "Ichabod?" she said faintly.

"I'm here," he said, squeezing her hand.

She turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him. Then memory came back to her. "Jeremy!" she gasped, and tried to sit up.

"No, no." Ichabod pushed her back down. "Lie still! Jeremy is fine. You saved him."

Abbie held his hand tightly, waiting for the pain to recede. "The gunmen?" she gasped.

"Two of them are dead, and Frank has men out looking for the third," Ichabod answered. He had refrained from telling Jeremy that the man he had thrown backward had died of a broken neck—he had told him only that the man would not be coming after them anymore. He could fill Abbie in on all the details when she was feeling better.

There was a soft knock at the door, and it opened to reveal Jenny and Jeremy—the latter looked very frightened.

Abbie mustered a weak smile. "Hi, Baby!" she said, stretching her arm out to him.

It was all the invitation he needed. He ran over to her and threw his arms around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder. "I love you, Mom," he said tearfully.

She smiled, her lips trembling. "I love you too, Baby," she said, hugging him as tightly as she could. She looked up at Ichabod and Jenny, who were both beaming at her with relief. Her family. She kissed Jeremy's cheek.


	22. Chapter 22

"Papa? Mom?"

"Jeremy?" Abbie blinked in the darkness. "What's the matter, Baby?"

"I had a nightmare." His voice broke a little.

"Come here, little man," Ichabod said, and with a sniff, Jeremy climbed into bed between them. He went willingly into Abbie's arms, and Ichabod wrapped his long, condor-like arms around them both.

"You haven't had a nightmare in awhile," Abbie observed at last, when Jeremy had relaxed a little and stopped trembling. He hadn't asked to climb in with them for almost a year—ever since they had defeated the last Horseman. "Do you want to talk about it?" She stroked his hair. He was getting older—soon he would match her in height.

He shook his head and lay quiet for a minute. "I think Moloch is still coming for us," he said shakily.

"We bound Moloch in chains and cast him into the deepest dungeon of hell," Ichabod reminded him soothingly, his voice sleepy.

"It's all over, Baby," Abbie agreed.

"It doesn't feel like it's over," Jeremy said quietly.

Abbie rubbed his back. "You've been frightened for so long that your mind is used to it. You're just having trouble adjusting to the idea that we're all safe." She kissed his hair. "Just trust us, Baby."

Jeremy hugged her tightly, and in a little while his breathing evened out and he fell asleep, wrapped in the arms of his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk about a MINI one-shot... lol  
> As I'm finishing up the last couple of chapters of this fic, we're also starting to post "White Out," the first in the "Family Ties" series that a couple of us have been RPing! Check it out, and I hope you enjoy it!


	23. Chapter 23

Abbie took a deep breath and laid it down on the counter. It would take a couple of minutes to register anyway, and there was no point thinking about it until it did. She turned the water on and stepped into the shower, standing still and letting the warmth wash over her, relaxing her knotted muscles.

She had finally begun to actually wash her hair when she heard the bathroom door open. "Good morning, Flittermouse," Ichabod said.

"Morning," she answered, rinsing suds out of her hair. She heard him moving around in the bathroom for awhile. 

Finally he said, "Did we get a new thermometer?"

Thrown off balance by his question, she froze for a moment. "Uhhh…"

"And what do two pink lines mean? Your temperature surely isn't eleven."

"WHAT?" Abbie scrambled out of the shower, not even bothering to turn off the water, and nearly slipped. 

"Careful!" he said, catching her arm.

She snatched the pregnancy test out of his hand and stared at it. Clear as day, there they were, two pink lines. She gaped for a moment, then yanked open the cupboard under the sink and snatched the box out of the trash and read the back. It took a moment for her to take in the words, to check and make sure she was reading it right.

"Oh my God," she whispered, and put her hand over her mouth.

"Abbie?" Ichabod was alarmed. "What is it? Abbie, what's wrong."

"I'm pregnant," she whispered.

"What?" He had suddenly gone very still.

She looked up at his eyes, wide and very blue, his arrested expression.

"I think I'm pregnant," she repeated.

She saw a look cross his face, a wild flash of hope. But: "You _think?_ " he repeated carefully.

"I—the tests have false positives sometimes," she explained, still breathless. "I'd have to go to a doctor to be sure."

He nodded once, pulling her towel off of the rack, and wrapped it around her. "Get dressed," he said quickly, excitedly. He strode into the hall, and she heard him on the phone. "Jenny? Can you watch Jeremy for a couple of hours? …No, nothing is wrong. But something's come up. …I will tell you all about it later. Yes. Thank you."

Abbie suddenly felt a smile spread across her face, an excitement building in her that she couldn't hold down. She looked down and touched her stomach… Then rushed into the bedroom and began throwing on clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all think I had forgotten you? :) Mea culpa. Two chapters to go. I am crazy busy studying for my comprehensive exam, but I am determined to finish this sucker!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I promised updates and then I left this for over a month. Mea culpa! This is the last chapter--there's just the epilogue after this. :)

"Papa, what's this?" Jeremy waved an object in the air, his mouth half-full of crackers.

"Swallow before you speak," Ichabod said automatically, looking up from the table, where he was sorting through old documents. "That's a pentangle from the Lesser Key of Solomon. You can use it to summon certain kinds of demons."

Abbie dropped another box on the floor beside him. "I'm so glad we don't have a use for all this stuff anymore. I've had enough demons to last a lifetime. _Several_ lifetimes."

"Don't strain yourself, Flittermouse," Ichabod said tenderly, glancing at her swollen belly. "I can carry the heavy things."

"I can manage a box of papers," Abbie laughed, leaning over to kiss him on the top of the head. "I'm just glad we're finally cleaning this place up."

Ichabod glanced around the archives. "It was time." There was a huge relief in putting everything away in labeled boxes, nice and neat and out of sight. They had put off doing this for so long: still recovering from the stress of the last few years; feeling, like Jeremy, that things couldn't possibly be over. But they were. And these things weren't needed anymore.

"This is cool," Jeremy said, bringing an object over to them. It was a strange-looking short sword with esoteric symbols carved into the blade.

"That is Saint Peter's Key," Ichabod explained, "It sends evil spirits back into hell. It's what your mother used to defeat Death." He and Abbie exchanged a smile.

"Are you certain Death is defeated?" a familiar, feminine voice said from the depths of the archives.

They all jumped. Ichabod sprang from his seat. "Katrina?" he whispered.

She stepped out into the light, looking just as she had the last time he had seen her alive: long, curling red hair, large gray eyes, dark lashes, cupid's bow lips. She wore a trailing gown of scarlet and purple.

"Hello, Ichabod," she said, smiling.

"Mama?" Jeremy croaked, and took a step forward. Ichabod threw out a hand, stopping him.

"You are dead," he said, his voice rough with pain. Abbie looked on in horror.

"Am I?" Katrina was still smiling. It looked like her—but it wasn't. There was a cruelty in her eyes that had never been there in life.

"You are not Katrina," he said firmly, shaking his head, though there was grief in his face. "You are not the mother of my child. You are Babylon, the mother of all prostitutes and abominations of the earth."

"I am what is inside of you," Katrina answered sweetly. "Moloch held me back until the last: I have been sent to show you your own soul."

Ichabod snatched up the sword from the table behind him. "Moloch is in hell. And you will join him." He strode forward and plunged the sword into her chest.

She smiled down at it, and back up at him. "Oh, Ichabod," she sighed. "Evil is not something outside of you that you can destroy and dust off your hands: it is inside of you. Each man has his sins. I came to show you yours."

Ichabod staggered backwards—and Abbie saw a wound identical to the demon's in his chest, his shirt blossoming with crimson blood. "You cannot defeat death," the specter said. "It will always defeat you. For the wages of sin is death, and what man is without sin?" Still smiling serenely she faded from sight. The sword hit the ground with a clang as Ichabod collapsed.

"NO!" Abbie skidded to her knees next to him, covering the wound. "Jeremy, call 911! Baby! Baby, look at me."

Ichabod stared up into her face as she futilely tried to stanch the bleeding. She could see the agony in his face—the pain, not of dying, but of leaving her. Looking into his eyes, she could almost hear his thoughts: he had died and left his first wife alone and with child, and now he was leaving her, too. "I'm sorry," he managed to choke out, blood dripping from the side of his mouth.

"No! No, baby, please don't. Please don't leave me," she pleaded. "You have to hang on. We're going to call an ambulance, and you're going to be fine."

He shook his head wordlessly, and reached up toward her. She grabbed his hand, sobbing, and pressed it to her cheek. "Don't," she sobbed. "I love you!"

His eyes fluttered shut.

"No! No, no no no no," she said frantically, patting his cheek. "Ichabod. Ichabod!"

"Mom." Jeremy was beside her, his face white and set. Even in the midst of her frenzy Abbie thought he had never looked so like his father. He pushed her hands gently aside and pressed, of all things, a cracker into the blood of his father's wound. "I purge the sin from his blood," he murmured, "his soul sanctified. Death, leave him now." He raised his hand to his mouth, and as Abbie looked on in horror, he swallowed the now blackened cracker.

Everything in the room began to shake. Items toppled off of shelves, piles of books collapsed, glass jars shattered. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended.

"Death has been swallowed in victory," Jeremy murmured.

And Ichabod opened his eyes.

Abbie threw herself at him, sobbing. He hugged her, and looked around, stunned. "What happened?"

Jeremy saved you," Abbie choked out, wiping at her eyes. "He ate your sins."

Ichabod turned wondering eyes on his son. "How—"

"Henry told me how he does it," Jeremy answered with a small smile. "I didn't think it was something I could do—until just now."

Ichabod reached out and pulled him into a tight hug. "I love you both so much," he managed to whisper. The three of them sat in silence, their arms wrapped around one another. It really was over.


End file.
